On not writing for 5 months, Cafe Mac, and Mad Men

As you may have noticed, there is a rather large gap in time between this post and the previous one. There are several possible explanations for this gap: laziness, sloth, apathy, or another synonym that I would include if it didn’t take so much energy to open up a new tab and go to thesaurus.com.

But, while all of these causes are valid, I am going to stand by an explanation that is probably completely unfounded, just because it makes me sound less lethargic (See! I can think of synonyms on my own.) My hypothesis is as follows: I haven’t written anything because I haven’t been eating at Cafe Mac.

Now, for those of you who have never had the pleasure of being scolded for wearing your backpack a second too long, or being wished a “Happy Tuesday” by an overly enthusiastic short woman, Cafe Mac is the cafeteria at Macalester College. It’s a good cafeteria, but one of its best features is its constant supply of comedic inspiration. Whether I’m listening in on people’s conversations about who the hottest streetfighter was (Guille was the conclusion that was reached, but I was very close to yelling at them to stop disrespecting Ryu), or watching a hungry klepto attempt to sneak an extra banana past the ever-watching sentinel, I was always surrounded by a surplus of humorous behavior from which to draw ideas for what to write.

Over the summer, I did not have Cafe Mac.

For the first month-and-a-half  of this year, I did not have Cafe Mac. 

Last week, I ate at Cafe Mac for the first time. You are now reading a blog written by me. My hypothesis is starting to look pretty good now, huh?

But, unlike other times, when I had been externally inspired by my surroundings, last week I discovered something about myself–something that I had never fully realized before: I fucking LOVE Cafe Mac!

This realization alone, however, is nothing special–after all, I’d probably love hell if they served french fries and BBQ sauce. No, what really got me thinking was why I loved the cafeteria so much. And the reason is quite simple: the soda fountain.

I like soda the way some people like marijuana. In fact, my first thought after seeing Pineapple Express was that I wanted to make a movie with the same idea, but instead of smoking pot throughout the movie, the two main characters would just drink a lot of soda. (Ok, it probably wouldn’t be that funny, but if I could get Rogen and Franco, then it wouldn’t have to be funny, right?) The point is, soda is wonderful.

But not everybody thinks so. There are people out there–awful, awful people–who disrespect soda. (By the way, if an individual was to disrespect Ryu and soda simultaneously, perhaps saying something like, “That Ryu sure does suck. What does he do, drink Dr. Pepper all day,” I would severely dislike that individual immediately.) These anti-soda people make ridiculous health-related claims, citing scientific studies that I’ve never even read. It’s a growing movement; California banned the sale of soft drinks in public elementary and middle schools, claiming “childhood obesity” as the reason. I ask you this, Mr. Schwarzenegger: How do you expect kids to lose weight if you don’t let them drink Diet Pepsi?

Though I jest, the thing is, I’m actually not upset by all this uproar. In fact, I hope there is a world-wide movement to stop children from drinking soda. And here’s why: Regardless of what statistics scientists come up with, regardless of how bad soda is proven to be for the human body, I’m not going to stop drinking it–it’s just too good. And if I’m not going to stop, and if I’m going to incur all of the health consequences that come with it, I at least want to feel like a badass while I’m doing it. In 20 years, I want a little kid to tug on his mother’s space suit and ask, “Mommy, why is that man drinking soda? Doesn’t he read Science Quarterly?” And his mother will just sigh and shake her head, but secretly want me. Because I’m drinking soda.

I’m well aware of how awful this all sounds (and not just the subtle sexism and belief that people will be wearing space suits in 20 years). Clearly, this idea of disregarding health in exchange for being perceived as cool could easily be applied to the smoking of cigarettes, pot, and clowns like you on the b-ball court (maybe not the last one, though busted ankles can be problematic). If I condone the drinking of soda in the presence of irrefutable evidence that it is unhealthy, then I might as well be condoning the consumption of these other products. And that’s where we get to the true villain in all of this–not the tobacco companies, not the soda companies, not hazing rituals at prestigious universities…

…but Don Draper.

I’ve never smoked a cigarette, and I probably never will, but nobody makes it look cooler than Don and the other guys on Mad Men. There is something oddly intriguing about a historical period in which a specific practice is being slowly realized to be unhealthy, and yet a group of people are vehemently apathetic about this realization. They smoke a lot on the show. Like, a LOT. And they just don’t seem to care.

Here, watch this clip. No, do it. Seriously, it’ll make you look cool.

(It doesn’t let you embed, so you might have to watch it on youtube.)

What was your first thought after watching this? Was it… “I really wanna read that book?” “What was the word Joan pointed to?” “Why is that boy wearing a plaid dress?”

Well maybe you didn’t notice, but she had a cigarette around her mouth THE ENTIRE TIME! That’s what they do on that show. They just smoke. And do I judge them? Do I wonder why they’re destroying their lungs? No! Because I want to be just like them. Not smoking, that’s nasty, but I want drinking soda to become what smoking was back then. In the future, I want them to make a television show about people in 2009, and I want constant shots of people drinking soda and cursing and drinking soda and laughing and drinking soda. Because this is the only way I’m ever going to feel like Don Draper.

And feeling like Don Draper is an end in itself.

On Musical Theater/Musical Theatre/Commercials

Confucius or Abraham Lincoln once said, “The only thing constant is change.” That’s a good quote, but I have a better one: “The only thing consistent is hypocrisy.” Allow me to explain.

As one may gather from my previous posts, there are many aspects of pop culture I genuinely dislike, including, but not limited to, The Disney Channel; “Twilight” (both the series and the time of day); John Mayer-esque music; and reality television (let’s just pretend my Britain’s Got Talent post was a satire…). Not only am I repelled from these aspects of culture, but I tend to view them as objectively ”bad,” and then, by the distributive property (because I’m sick and tired of the transitive property being the only property used in non-mathematical situations) tend to unfairly view those who enjoy these things as “wrong.”

Not only is this rude of me, but it is also extremely hypocritical, which leads back to my original quote.

I was a big Harry Potter fan. Like really big. And while it’s easy for me to sit back in my 18th century rocking chair and ask obnoxious questions like “Do any intelligent people watch The Hills?” or “Remember that really chill John Mayer song?”, I’m well aware of the fact that people 6 or 7 years older than me probably looked at the chubby kid practicing “wingardium leviosa” with the same contempt.

While I could discuss this hypocrisy in pop culture preferences more thoroughly (see: “Nickelodeon was SOOOOOOOO much better in the 90s. Right? RIGHT?!?!), this introduction was merely a mechanism to set up an important lesson I learned from the Harry Potter series.  

In the 3rd book (Prisoner of Azkaban), Harry and the gang break into the Shrieking Shaq to catch Sirius Black, who Harry is convinced betrayed his parents. When they get there, they find out that Remus Lupin, Harry’s teacher at Hogwarts, is actually Sirius’ BFFL! The gang is stunned, but more so when they learn that Lupin is a werewolf with an extremely coincidental surname. He’s really embarrassed when they all find out (apparently being a werewolf is a bad thing in the Potter universe) but after he explains to them the efforts he goes through to prevent his monthly transformations from hurting anyone (take notes, ladies), they’re all cool with him.

Why, you may ask, did this scene resonate with me so?

The way Lupin felt about others knowing he was a werewolf is the same way I feel when people find out I do musical theater.

Now before you all jump out of your 16th century Glastonbury chairs and shout “What are you talking about Josh? Musical theatre is so dope!”, please note two things: First, this is America, and we put our ‘e’s before our ‘r’s. Second, it’s not doing musical theater I have a problem with; rather, it’s the stigma that goes along with doing musical theater that makes me uncomfortable revealing that tid-bit about myself. To paraphrase the great Joe Houlihan, “I do musical theater…but I’m not a bitch.”

I have been performing in musicals for quite some time, and there is one thing I have taken from it above everything else: For being pigeon-holed as a progressive, gay-loving, welcoming medium, musicals are surprisingly reactionary. More specifically, musicals tend to promote the anti-feminist idea that a woman must “have a man” in order to be successful. Some examples:

Grease:

Independent woman. Wants to fall in love, not simply so that she can “be with someone,” but because it will make her happy. Is not o.k. with men treating her like crap. Sticks up for herself.  

Resolution:     That ain’t gonna happen, toots. You need to wear your clothes like everyone else and be cool. Because that’s what boys want. And why would you behave in any way besides what boys want? Sure they may slap you around, but you’re wearing tight leather, so you’ll be alright.

Annie Get Your Gun

Independent woman. Wants to fall in love, not simply so that she can “be with someone,” but because it will make her happy. Ridiculously talented. Also has dreams to be a famous performer.

Resolution:     One or the other, toots. You’re either going to get a man, or you’re going to follow your dreams…you can’t have it both ways. Of course, she goes with the man, and gives up on all of her other goals.

Thoroughly Modern Millie

Independent woman. One of the new brand of “moderns” of the 1920s, who believed that woman were just as rational and intelligent as men.

Resolution:      Actual line of dialogue from the movie, spoken, at the end of the film, by the once-independent woman to her love interest: “Oh no. I don’t want to be your equal anymore. I want to be a woman. A dandy little bundle for a fellow to cuddle.” That’s an actual line from the movie!

So as you can see, although there may be some exceptions (Fiddler on the Roof and Sweet Charity come to mind), musical theater is, in many ways, a rather conservative practice, although I can’t really imagine Newt Gingrich shaking his booty to “You Can’t Stop the Beat.”

But over the last few days, I began to think that perhaps I was being too hard on musicals. After all, isn’t art merely a reflection of society? Surely there must be other, less jazzhands-infused places where these same sexist norms are being reinforced. And guess what! Apparently (and you may not believe me) there is sexism outside of Broadway. And you claimed you never learned anything from a blog.

It was in a commercial. 

No, not a beer commercial, and not a car commercial, but a mother-fucking Frito-Lays commercial.

Now, apparently I’m not the first to notice the racist, sexist nature of this commercial. It seems benign at first…a sad yellow circle in a world of green circles. It tries to paint itself green, which works surprisingly well until it rains. But apparently it decides instead of buying waterproof paint or, I dunno, an umbrella, it’s just going to give up. That’s when it passes a blue circle, whose color is representative of its mood. The two join together, and now are green like everybody else.

While there are obvious racist overtones (undertones?) to the commercial (why be one color when you can be a better color?), I found it to be quite sexist as well.

Listen to the music. Where might you hear that song? If you answered a Michael Cera/Rachel McAdams romantic comedy, you’d be absolutely right! Clearly, the commercial is implying that these two circles are more than friends…they may even be “going all the way around the circumference,” if you know what I mean. At the beginning of the commercial, the yellow circle is a single woman. All around her, she sees constant reminders that she should conform–marry, raise kids, be like everyone else. She is treated as an outcast, because she dares to think that a single woman can live a meaningful life. The green circles represent married couples, and, just like the musicals discussed above, the commercial is saying that women should not feel content until they have a man.

That, and that you should eat Lays.

The second part’s true, by the way. They’re delicious.

On Depression

Sometimes I write because I feel funny. Sometimes I write because I’m bored. Sometimes I write because people with Ph.D’s tell me to.

Right now I’m writing because I’m depressed. 

When it comes to sports, my depression usually follows a rather predictable path: My team loses. I get really upset. I go to sleep. I wake up. I feel better. For example,  the Dodgers are currently doing their best to blow a 6-run first inning. That’s going to make me depressed, but I’m well aware that that particular pain will be gone in the morning.

This morning really fucked up my pattern.

I went to bed feeling good. The Lakers had won. The Dodgers had won, setting a major league record. It was a good time to be an L.A. sports fan.

I woke up, and within a half-hour, I was sad again.

(Dodgers update: Corey Wade just gave up a lead-off double to Josh Willingham, who’s batting .175. Dodgers are up 6-4 in the 8th. They’re going to lose this game.)

Why was I sad? Well, in case you haven’t been on espn.com/facebook/planet Earth today, Manny Ramirez, the Dodgers’ super-star, was handed a 50-game suspension by major league baseball for failing a drug test.

I must have read 6 or 7 stories today on Manny; it seemed like everyone in espn had an opinion. But of all the articles I read, there was really only one that I cared about, a story by Bill Simmons.

(Bases loaded, still no outs)

Sure, it was an article on Manny, but unlike the other garbage of people spewing off theories, scolding Ramirez, analyzing his Hall-of-Fame chances, and lecuring commissioner Bud Selig, Simmons talked about something radical–how he felt. As a baseball fan, and as a Red Sox fan. What a concept!

(The great Brent Leach has entered the game everyone! No need to fear.)

So, since it’s now become an alternative to hard drugs (human chlorionic gonadatropid, anyone?), I thought I would write about how this ordeal has made me feel as a Dodgers fan. It’s not going to be particularly funny, but hopefully catharsis will work its magic.

The Dodgers this year were something special. Not just because they were playing well, but because their success was the culmination of something Dodger fans had been awaiting for four years or so. This was the team we had been assembling for so long. There was no longer the “If only we had a decent 3rd baseman” or the “Maybe in the second round we should draft a walker for Jeff Kent.” All the pieces were finally in place.

(The Nationals just scored 6 runs in the 8th. I’m crying right now.)

And we had gone about it the right way. Andruw Jones was gone, and we could feel proud about all our other players. We had grown Kemp, Loney, Martin, Broxton, and Billingsley. We had traded the head-case Milton Bradley to get Ethier. We’d signed a bunch of veteran role players. And we’d given a misunderstood and perennially underrated superstar a chance to thrive in a new environment.

The Dodgers were more than a good team; they were my response to everything sports-related.

“The center the Lakers just promised $40 million has all but disappeared in the most important games of his career.”

–”It’s alright, the Dodgers are 21-8.”

“Staples Center is dead silent during a play-off game…what the fuck?”

–”Don’t worry about it, the Dodgers have the best line-up in the NL.”

In my mind, they could do no wrong. They were the classiest organization, with the classiest players, fans, and coaches. I don’t believe in this “karma” stuff that Radiohead sings about, but if I did, the Dodgers would be getting a full dose of the positive brand. October seemed inevitable. Maybe this was a mistake on my part.

Because then it all changed.

All of a sudden, we went from the “team on the hill” to “run of the mill”. Not talent-wise, but integrity-wise. The Dodgers transformed in an instant from a breath of fresh air to just another steroids scandal–from a feel-good story to simply another reason to change my homepage from espn.com to hulu.com.

I have nothing to fall back on. The Dodgers were my safety net when anything else got me depressed. When I’m sick of thinking about Manny, what sports-related concept am I supposed to think about? The Lakers, and the fact that it’s very likely they won’t even get the chance to be beaten by the Cavs?

(Representing the potential tying run, Juan Pierre just grounded out to first.)

With teams in the past (Lakers, Dodgers, UCLA Bruins) I’ve always said they were great. I’ve always supported them. I’ve always said that they deserved to win it all. This years’ Dodgers team was the first time I genuinely meant it. Because they had made the right decisions, and played the game right. And it feels good to know that the team you love deserves that love.

And now it’s gone.

They no long are the team that should win the World Series. Of course I want them to, and they very well might. But they’ve lost that perfection that made rooting for them so pure.

And that’s not the kind of depression that goes away after a good night’s sleep. This will stay with me the whole season, and perhaps next season too. 

(The Nats score again in the 9th. This is just awful.)

I suppose I could always give up sports, and start paying attention to the real world. –What? The Taliban is about to get access to nuclear weapons?   

Let’s go, Kobe!

On England, Reality TV, and Comparisons

This afternoon, I was having lunch and watching CNN, enjoying the tastiness of bean chili and Jack Cafferty, respectively. However, the television was on mute, and I absolutely hate closed captioning. (Wait, Blitzer looked upset at that woman…I wonder what she said. I’d better wait 15 seconds to find out. Wait for it, wait for it, wait for it…Who the hell is Bernie Maid Elf?)

So, for that reason, I was paying less attention to what the talking heads were saying, and more attention to the little headlines scrolling at the bottom of the screen. There were a couple of ”Obama asking for money from Congress,” a few “Economy looking better/worse,” and some more Somali pirates, who are obviously just copy-cats. But there was one headline that made me look up from my chow mein.

Boy Wonder Steals Spotlight from Susan Boyle

I’m now going to make a rather absurd reference. Bear with me:

Do you remember that scene from The Waterboy where the bad guy coach, Red something, is sitting at the bar watching ESPN? Probably not, because it’s a really obscure scene. Anyway, Coach Red is watching SportsCenter, and the lead story is about Bobby Boucher, who used to be the waterboy on Red’s team, but was fired. The guy on TV (I want to say Stuart Scott) is talking about how Bobby set an NCAA record for sacks in a game, and how basically he’s now an amazing player. Red is obviously upset that he let Bobby go, but mostly he is just absolutely surprised, and he stares, mouth opened, with painful confusion and shock, as the inside of his sandwich slips through the bread and falls on his plate, while “House of the Rising Sun” starts blaring in the background.

That’s exactly what I did when I saw that headline. Except instead of meat slipping through bread, it was chow mein falling from my fork. And instead of “House on the Rising Sun,” it was a polyphonic version of “Hey Ya” from someone’s cellphone.

Apparently, some kid sang some song on “Britain’s Got Talent” and now is more popular that Susan Boyle, who is some woman who sang some song on “Britain’s Got Talent.” 

Susan Boyle?!    My Susan Boyle?!    Nay, Our Susan Boyle?!   The woman whom Reverend James Martin believes embodies the way God herself sees us???  Upstaged by some boy-wonder?!?!?!

After my initial reaction, I switched from shocked to indignant. I looked around, my hands raised in the air, as if to shout, “What is this bullshit?” Unfortunately, my assumption, that of the 10 people sitting at the counter, another individual would have read the same headline as me and had the same reaction, proved to be unfounded.

After lunch, I raced back to my dorm, eager to send bad thoughts to this boy “wonder,” as soon as I found a picture of him. I imagined a snot-nosed ginger, or a chubby “O’Doyle Rules” kid (Let’s see how many Adam Sandler movies I can get in here.) What I did not imagine, however, was Shaheen Jafargholi. I’m not going to include a picture of him…because regardless of my intentions, saving a picture of a 12-year-old to my computer just feels icky. Let’s just say he’s what you’d get if you crossed Dev Patel and a puppy. He’s a SlumPuppy Millionaire. HA!

So how could I hate this adorable dimple-ridden kid? (although he may not stay adorable for long, seeing as he sang songs by Amy Winehouse and Michael Jackson, two artists who both made the plunge from attractive to creepy relatively quickly.) But does Jafargholi really have what it takes to trump Boyle? Since winning competitions is all about getting sympathy, let’s put the two next to teach other…Mono E. Mono…in the first ever…AWW-OFF!

That’s right, both of these individuals elicit a fair share of “aww”s, from adoring fans, creepy British Ryan Seacrests, and the public. But who elicits more? I have laid out 3 categories. Let the Aww-off begin!

CATEGORY 1:     Lonliness

Nothing brings tears to the eyes quicker than a person all alone. Imagine if you were watching a documentary on Stalin, and you just watched him brutally murder one of his political opponents in front of the now-dead man’s son. And then Stalin goes home and writes in his diary about how nobody understands him and he has no friends. I don’t know which of those two things is more tragic! It’s at least a toss-up. Anyway, Susan Boyle has never been kissed, and I’m sure that Jafargholi gets plenty of action. This category goes to Boyle.

CATEGORY 2:    Family Life

Besides breakfast, family is the most important thing…and that’s doubled when you’re trying to get someone to find you adorable. I mean, Vito Corleone was responsible for hundreds of deaths and extortions, but he loved his family, so he’s OK. Unfortunately for Susan, she failed to mention her family, besides her cat, Pebbles (who I’m suspecting might just be a dustpan with a wig). Shaheen, on the other hand, has a single mother and a grandpa almost as adorable as he is. Family life goes to Jafargholi. 

CATEGORY 3:   Inspirational Factor

This is definitely the toughest pick, as a solid case can be made for both of these individuals. Boyle is a 48-year-old virgin who is unemployed and classically unattractive. (I love how you can get away with calling someone ugly by putting “classically” in front of it. We should try it with other insults. ”Hey, you’re classically stupid.”) If Boyle can make it as a pop-culture phenomenon, then so can anyone! ARE YOU INSPIRED!?!?! Jafargholi is a pretty inspirational character as well. He’s a young, optimistic kid who probably had some obstacles to overcome. He reminds us of a more innocent time, and makes us all want to be better people. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to overcome the “virgin” card, and Boyle gets the point.

Well, there you go. Boyle wins 2-1. Though Shaheen Jafargholi may hog the spotlight now, he doesn’t have what it takes to defeat the people’s champion, Susan Boyle, and he will ultimately fall short, and maybe resort to throwing sticks at rollerbladers, just like the kid in Big Daddy.

Ok. Maybe that one was a bit of a stretch.

On research and celebrity

Often times, I come up with sayings, or quotations. Sometimes, I think that these sayings are really cool and profound, like “Science is at its purest not when it is answering questions, but when it is questioning answers.” Other times, they are much less profound. “Eating Tobasco Sauce is like poking your eyes out with deliciousness” is an example that would most likely fall into this latter category.

But I came up with a saying the other day that I truly believe holds a great deal of truth. I realize it is probably not the smartest thing for me to tell you that I am about to deliver a great quotation. (Imagine the ramifications if the U.S. had heard one morning: ”Oh hey America, I came up with this witty proverb while I was screwing Arthur Miller the other day…Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”) But I will put aside this slight reservation, because I don’t really have any other medium with which to share this quote:

“The lazy student will fly like Superman, with research his Kryptonite.”

Pretty good huh? If you don’t think so, imagine Obama saying it, and make sure to put a pause after ”student” and “Superman” for dramatic effect. Now you’re gettin’ it! 

Being an extremely lazy student, I revel in book reports and personal narratives, and look with great trepidation on any assignment involving me to “prove myself.” Fuck you, assignment! If you don’t believe me, look that shit up yourself.

So, naturally, I would never consider writing a blog that required reasearch to be done. Right? Right? Well if that was the case, the preceding paragraphs would have been a pretty substantial waste of time. Rather, I have done research! No, not the cool kind with goggles or chemicals or intelligence, but the much more common type of research involving a website I discovered called google.com. So here it is…my research blog:

I am 19 years and 2 months old, which means that I am older than 88.1% of teenagers (if we ignore mortality rates and assume constant birth rates). In other words, I have a B+ in being old, which is pretty darn good. I was curious, though, if this “proficiency in existing for extended periods of time” or PEEPT, has any correlation with success in life. (See what I did? I laid out a hypothesis. Wow, maybe I should be a researcher.)

So I typed in “highest paid teens” into google, and I got 803,000 results! Luckily for me, though, the first result was the most relevant. And my research was complete. Now that I got through all that technical-fact-truth mumbo-jumbo, I could focus on my true love, just saying stuff. But I will remain true to my hypothesis, that there is a positive correlation between PEEPT and success.

Oh yeah, and I invented a completely objective measure for success: Success = Income (in millions) + Fame (number of fan websites) + Whether or not I like the person.

HIGHEST PAID TEENS:

1. Daniel Radcliffe:

PEEPT: He’s been a teenager for 77 months.

Income: $ 25 million last year.

Fame: 4 serious fan sites.

Whether or not I like him:    I have a hard time disliking Daniel. He’s a fine actor, charismatic, and made me laugh when he guest-starred on ”Extras.” He hasn’t really done too much in the States besides Harry Potter, but the fact that he’s British gives him an air of authenticity. He gets a Josh-rating of 8 stars.

2.   Miley Cyrus

PEEPT: Been a teenager for 41 months.

Income: $25 million last year. Holy shit.

Fame: 13 fan sites. Holy shit.

Whether or not I like her:    Let me just start by quoting the first sentence of her wikipedia page. “Miley Cyrus…is a Golden Globe- and Critics-Choice award- nominated American singer, actress, and best-selling author.” Wow, she’s like Bob Dylan, Marlon Brando, and Alice Walker all rolled up into one! Seriously, there is absolutely no way an objective person wrote that wikipedia article, because if they did, the first sentence would have been “Why is this person famous?…because Disney needed a new star after its other ones got too old/coked-up.” (citation needed)

Cyrus gets a Josh rating of 1.5 stars.

And speaking of Disney stars…no it’s not Esmeralda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame, it’s…

3.   Joe and Nick Jonas!

PEEPT:  Joe has been a teenager for 78 months. Nick has been a teenager for 43 months.

Income:  About $4 million each.

Fame:  10 fan sites.

Whether or not I like them:

 

Watch it all the way through. I dare you.

I don’t like covers in general, but that is probably one of the worst videos I have ever seen, and I once saw a video of a woman torturing a cat. (Side-note about the woman who tortured her cat: her name was released to the public, and I think she was killed by a mob.) The only redeeming aspect of that above video is that it at least proves that the Jonas Brothers realize how awful they are…look at their faces at 2:37-2:42, it’s as if they’re incredulously asking, “Why the hell are they all clapping? We suck!” That acknowledgement gets you half a star, boys.

And now, for the control…

Me

PEEPT: Been a teenager for 74 months.

Income: $0 million

Fame:  Zero sites

Whether or not I like me:   Josh rating of 10 starzzz!!!

So now we have an independent variable, PEEPT, and a dependent variable, Income + Fame + Josh Points. Now we math it up with Zatarain’s! We get the following regression:

(Income + Fame + Whether or not I like the person) = -.187(PEEPT)

Fuck That!

Not only was my hypothesis that age leads to success false, it appears that growing older actually makes an individual LESS successful, by a whole .187 success units per month. This is rather disheartening.

Research sucks. I’m going to go write a poem.

On Screenplays

I like movies.

 

I like movies so much that sometimes I watch them just for fun, even when I don’t have to watch them for school. Can you believe that?

 

I have often thought about writing a movie script, but then I usually think about playing freecell. And I have to admit, developing characters, plot, settings, and themes is just nowhere near as satisfying as seeing all of my cards fly up to the top of the screen once I get them all in order, and hearing that victorious trumpet solo that makes me feel like my name-sake at the battle of Jericho.

 

But freecell does eventually get boring, as does minesweeper, hearts, spider solitaire, and that last free game you get involving balls and line segments and moving trapezoids which is just way to complicated to figure out (and c’mon, who’s going to read the instructions to a free windows game?) And when I run out of mindless wastes of time, I often find myself attempting to write something with a sliver of creativity, and that something usually ends up being dirty haikus or screenplays. And, just because I know you want one…

 

She had pretty eyes.

He liked when they were touching

His bellybutton

 

After many failed attempts, however, I came to the disheartening conclusion that writing screenplays is hard. You know why it’s hard? I’ll tell you why. Because so many damn movies have been made. It seems like every time I had an idea, my thought process would go something like this:

 

And then what if X happened?

Aww, that would be so cool!

Yeah, and then what if guy Z was all like “W”

Oh yeah, just like in that movie!

(pause)

Fuck!

 

To make matters worse, it seemed like not only was I always reverting back to other movies, I was always reverting back to the SAME 4 MOVIES! Wanna hear ‘em?

 

The Graduate

Pulp Fiction

The Royal Tenenbaums

Se7en

 

It didn’t matter if I started out writing a bio-flick on Harriet Tubman. As I continued to flush out a plot, it would invariably begin to sound more and more familiar. And soon enough, Bingo, I would be simply copying one of those 4 films. They were like the four-corners of the Earth and I was a pre-Magellan explorer. If I went any further, I would fall off the edge of the world into the depths of plagiarism. 

 

What if a guy was all like living his life only the way other people told him to?

Aww, that would be so cool!

Yeah, and then what if he was all like “Forget this, I wanna be in control of my life.”

Oh yeah, just like in The Graduate!

(pause)

Fuck!

 

What if there was this underground crime world with hitmen and lots of awesome violence?

Aww, that would be so cool!

Yeah, and then what if 2 of the hitmen had like everyday conversations with each other to contrast the atrocities they were committing?

Oh yeah, just like in Pulp Fiction!

(pause)

Fuck!

 

What if there was this really dysfunctional family?

Aww, that would be so cool!

Yeah, and then what if they all met up as adults and had to deal with all of their issues

Oh yeah, just like in The Royal Tenenbaums.

(pause)

Fuck!

 

What if there was this serial killer?

Aww, that would be so cool!

Yeah, and then what if we think he’s just crazy, but really he’s trying to send a message out to society

Oh yeah, just like in Se7en.

(pause)

Fuck!

 

Obviously, my frustration is apparent, but it appears that I am doomed to be stuck in this Wittgensteinian flytrap of film.

  

But then again, maybe original concepts are overrated. Take a look at the movies being made today. Even if you disregard the remakes and sequels, so many “original” movies just look like carbon copies. I mean, take that Julia Roberts/Clive Owen movie, Duplicity. That is NOT an original movie. That is the result of half a bottle of vodka, a defective condom, and Ocean’s 11 asking out Mr. and Mrs. Smith to dinner as “friends.”

 

Or The Haunting in Connecticut. Seriously, have there not been enough of these movies made? But they will continue to make them, and I’m sure there will eventually be a “comedy” made called Not Another Movie About Supernatural Occurences in Farm-towns, and when it is made, I think I will boycott art.

  

Hell, at least there’s always freecell. 

 

 

 

On my muse

I decided to start blogging for one reason: Inspiration.

Inspiration is not a “pro” in some list of “pros” and “cons;” it is not a factor you plug into a computer like Ben Stiller in Along Came Polly. You don’t negotiate with Inspiration. When you it strikes you, you are its bitch. End of story.

Inspiration gets you just when you think you are immune to it. When I was younger my mom told me that if I used anti-bacterial soap but didn’t wash my hands well enough, the surviving bacteria would become immune to the soap. I was always hoping that they would invent SuperSoap, which would kill any bacteria no matter what. In this analogy, the anti-bacterial soap is inspiration (notice the lower-case i), the bacteria is me, and the SuperSoap is Inspiration (notice the capital I). You may, like the bacteria, be immune to inspiration, the daily miracles that tickle your creativity, but Inspiration, on the other hand, that’ll get you every time.

So I never thought I would write a blog. I have nothing against blogs (blatant lie) but it was never something I saw myself doing. However, as much antagonism as I have for the process, Inspiration doesn’t care about your motherfucking antagonisms.

My Inspiration comes in the form of a Man. He is my beautiful muse. Here he is.

For those of you who don’t know who this is…he is Didier Ilunga-Mbenga, more commonly referred to as D.J. Mbenga, and he is one of the most beautiful creatures to walk this earth.

I don’t even know your name, reader, yet I know what you are thinking, and I would like to outline a dialogue that the two of us would have it we were to meet.

Me: Hey [your name here]

You: Hey Josh. Nice shirt. Also, I just read your blog, about that guy…um…DJ Mm..Muhm..Mumbu

Me: D.J. Mbenga

You: Yeah. lol that guy is sooooo ugly, what the fuck, he’s like, sooo fugly and shit.

Me: He’s actually one of my inspirations.

You: Oh I get it. You’re trying to be all like, ironic and shit. Like saying he’s really cool, even though he’s just ugly and dumb and shit.

At this point I would walk away, shaking my head, because this is the reaction I expect. Yet all jokes, ironies, and bullshit aside, D.J. Mbenga is truly one of my heroes, and I will tell you why this classically unnatractive NBA player, who has averaged 2.7 points per game throughout his career, makes me want to be a better person. There are 3 main reasons.

1) Early life — D.J. was born in Zaire. I know what you’re thinking. “Isn’t that now known as the Democratic Republic of the Congo.” Well pat yourself on the back, reader, you are absolutely correct. D.J.’s father was a major player in the politics of Zaire, but when another ruler came to power who knew not of Mr. Mbenga and what he had done for Zaire, he imprisoned D.J.’s father and was going to execute him and his sons. D.J. Mbenga was going to be fucking executed by the King of Zaire!!!!!! How many NBA players can say that?!? Luckily, Mr. Mbenga was able to negotiate their freedom (wouldn’t this make a great movie–I’m thinking Forrest Whitaker and Sam Jackson would make a sweet good guy-bad guy combo), and D.J. was discovered by a basketball scout in a refugee camp.

2) He’s a badass — Following the unfortunate (yet admittedly awesome) Pacers-Piston brawl of 2004, Commisioner David Stern and Douchebag Stu Jackson got really pissy about players going in stands…so when D.J. waltzed into the stands during the playoffs (while playing for the Mavs) he got shot with a 6 game suspension, which removed him from some key games in the 2006 finals, in which the Mavs were eventually beaten by the Heat and a freak of nature named Dwayne. Ok. Not a big deal. He made a mistake, and had to deal with the consequences. Here’s the thing though. He went into the stands TO DEFEND HIS COACH’S WIFE who was being harassed by a bunch of drunken idiots. Only a true man would sacrifice 6 games of pay for the honor of a woman. D.J. Mbenga is a true man.

3) He tries so fucking hard — Anyone who watches D.J. play knows that he does not have very much natural skill. He is jerky, awkward, and basically fouls someone on every play. But he, more than any player I have ever seen (including you, Ronny Turiaf) tries so hard to do so much. He hustles, he boxes out, he sweats, and he looks in shock at the refs after he clobbers some point guard in the face, but he tries goddammit.

On March 6, 2009, D.J., for the first time in his career, scored in double digits, to go along with 5 blocked shots in just 17 minutes. It was a personal triumph, and a triumph of the human spirit.

I wish I could be a little more like D.J. Mbenga.

Maybe we should all be a little more like D.J. Mbenga.

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