This month in josh:

It will soon be reaching close to a month since my last post, so I must apologize for the disregard. The onset of collegian priorities in my life has, unfortunately, diminished my attention towards creative outlets. The usual heap of thoughts built up in my head over the course of a day, thoughts otherwise left on reserve until they unremittingly spew forth into the blogosphere, have since been usurped by the demanding powers of academia. Musings that would typically lend themselves to a trite anecdotal post, relaying the happenings of my ongoing love affairs with coffee, peanut-butter, hot-pockets, napping, and fast food, are now obscurely reformatted and edited to the likes of a college essay. I see a squirrel hawking silk pashminas in central park and before I can set to relaying the instance online, I find a way to incorporate the story into my western civ final exam essay on the fall of the Roman empire; my facial hair status finally elevates from that of "childish" to "hormonally-snubbed-teenager" and my beleaguered mind is too distracted with readings of Platonic dialogues to document the case in the most unorthodox of prose; I resolve to turn off the current House episode in order to write an entire post dedicated to Brady Rees, but end up sleeping for three hours, head on my keyboard, with only a line of "zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" to account for the day's work. My mind operates devoid of any thought not pertaining to school. Yes, I am a tool.

I miss the days when sounding like I understood politics only required citing the most recent daily show episode, or when philosophic discussions were prompted by quotes from teen movies like Dazed and Confused, instead of classic literature.

alas, life goes on.... stay tuned. More to come.

"Let me lend a hatchet to your mental thicket"

I sat in on an author reading/discussion with Joshua Furst this past Monday, as part of a literary series my writing professor hosts each week. I would find out, having showed up with no background on the author, that Furst is the author of two novels, The Sabotage Cafe and Short People, and a professor of writing at the Pratt Institute in New York. This was all well and good, and Furst provided some very insighful thoughts on the literary theories of trajedy in a postmodern world, but my thoughts lingered towards things more pertinent.

...Does the writer sport the turtle-neck, or does the turtle-neck sport the writer? This consideration of cause and effect holds more weight than one might think.

Furst strolled into the room with an nonchalant swagger. He had a humbled presence- a subdued, bohemian "coolness" almost too stereotypical for the New York writer- and had a welcoming and informal air about him. He was clad in black and grey tones, wearing straight legged chinos, boots, and a black turtle-neck sweater that draped across his skinny frame in a way that accentuated the hollowness between his limbs and the fabric. The classic scruffy beard he wore, aided towards that disheveled look the ladies dig, yet he refined his demeanor with some black framed glasses, reinforcing the fact that he is indeed a scholar.

I'm instantly thinking this dude knows what's up: he's fresh, he's cultured, he's modern- but the whole time i was asking my self what came first? Because if it was the talent in the writer, and the writer then accomodated his profession with a comfortable turtle-neck sweater, then I have to live and let it be. But if perhaps there is some secret power in a turtle-neck, one that endows its wearer with proclivity in prose and speech, and so explains the rule of "he who writes wears trendy and comfortable clothes in earth-tones", then perhaps the only thing standing in my way towards fame and accomplishment in the writers hall of fame, is a trip to the Gap.



ah the silver lining.

"what seems to be the officer, problem?"

According to some accounts, Leonardo Davinci only slept for two hours a day, taking 10-20 minute power naps periodically (commonly referred to as polyphasic sleep). In light of this, and accounting for recent experience, I'm becoming increasingly convinced that the traditional understanding of sleep is just a social remedy, designed to usher in the the proceeding work day. Christians often cite the 7th day of rest in the creation story as reason for why we are given a sabbath of rest at the end of each week. However, if we apply this 1:7 sleep ration to a 24 hour day, trying as always to mimick the ways of our Lord, we can rationalize the need for only 3.4 hours of sleep a day.

Rounding up, I usually get about four hours of sleep a night, a deficiency readily supplemented with unrighteous amounts of coffee and ibuprofen. One not currently familiar with the plight of the college student, probably thinks this a low number, and might argue that, lacking omnipotent power such as that of God, my entire line of reasoning is moronic. Perhaps so, but I stand by my convictions nonetheless. The social implications for this lack of sleep are many, such as emoting false impressions of being a narcoleptic to those around you, and being subjected to constant skepticism as to whether you are high.

The key, however, is periodically succumbing to coma-patient levels of sleep in the form of afternoon naps, an act in which I proudly engage with a sense of professionalism.












...If anything, the unavoidable "bed head" look is timeless in functioning both as stylish and practical. Consider it a gift.

From the editors desk:

"Stay away from pleated pants man. keep it flat front."
-Garrett Day


Sometimes a friend lends a thought, intended casually, that turns out to be dripping with conviction. I've known Garrett to speak a prophetic word on occasion and this instance is no exception. The pleated pant has marred the face of casual fashion, far too long, having not been rebuked so poignantly until now. What was the line of reasoning that ever justified pinning the top of one's pants into what looks like an origami project gone terribly wrong? Maybe it was thought to make one's pants more streamline and aerodynamic, lest we forget that our pants are not paper airplanes.

Place a pair of flat front chinos next to a pair of pleated and try not suffer an aneurysm from stupefaction. It takes a willful suspension of everything one knows in regards to what's aesthetically pleasing, to accept the form of a pleated front. There is just too much going on, especially in the midsection region (eh hmm), that inevitably draws one's eyes to gaze and wonder. Let the Milky Way galaxy instill such questions of origin in the minds of men and let pants be pants!

"I just swallowed a fly!"

Top 5 reasons I'm not panicking about being completely oblivious as to what Plato was getting at in the first five pages of the Republic today.

1. I haven't heard Plato referenced once in this upcoming election but Sarah Palin's credibility as a hockey mom has.

2. Socratic method would suggest that I should respond with a series of questions anyway. A confused look with do just fine.

3. I've only got a year and a half of teenage angst and indifference left in me so why am I caring about politics yet anyway?

4. I have wikipedia. The Greeks didn't.

5. I'm becoming increasingly good at voicing my opinion with an air of authority on topics I have no idea about. "wall street's strugglin again? ...supply and demand eh?"

"Now class let's talk about syntax. Prepare to be incredibly bored out of your head for the next hour!"

(This is a slightly revised version from the original post about a week ago. I touched up some things before handing it in.)

The following is a recent essay I wrote for my college writing 1.0 class and a testament as to why my academic scholarship remains in peril. We were asked to recreate a drama that occurred with us since moving to the city and so I resolved to hide behind humor as usual. The paper derives and drew inspiration from the "ba da dah dat dah" double cheeseburger blog from June which is why I felt compelled to post it. You will even note that I stole a few choice phrases at the end of this paper from the June one so I am aware of the self-plagiarism at work but they're my words so screw it...

I woke up in the middle of the night, soaking in a cold sweat. I was breathing heavily and, although I couldn’t remember, felt like I had just woke from a mentally strenuous dream. My confusion was disrupted, only for a moment, as my stomach gave out a light growl. Cautiously ignoring it, I looked at my phone. The clock said 2:00 am and I nervously realized I had only been sleeping for about two hours. This was to my grim surprise as I had been proud, this night, of my timely accomplishment of getting to bed at a reasonable hour. I gained my bearings atop my bunk in my bedroom and my eyes slowly dilated, adjusting to the darkness. Everything was still and in its place, with mounds of clothes and belongings strewn across the floor, but the familiar ambient noise of the city was replaced with a hollow silence. The absence felt foreign.

Sitting up, I started to realize that, indeed, something was not right. The ever-present, college-sized pit of hunger that typically makes residence in my stomach (the one I had unwittingly ignored only a moment ago) seemed to have been replaced with a sense of anxiety too intangible to pinpoint. I was now breaking a hot sweat.

“Not again,” I said to myself, unsure if I had actually spoken aloud. Then, as if provoked by my objection, my body responded with a preemptive attack, clinching my stomach organs as I doubled over into a withdrawal-like episode. Biting my lip in physical response, I mentally braced myself in anticipatory self-defense for what was to come.

“I will not suffer you tonight, ye beast!” My exclaim broke the night’s silence like the crack of a whip.

From this point, what ensues takes on an almost poetic-like clash of two wills, fated for battle in the New York City night. One can picture a scene tantamount to Jacob wrestling his angel but in my instance there is only a demon (Considering that none of my roommates woke up, further paves the way for an argument of mystic aura at work). My stomach made the first move.

“Give up now Josh and I might let you retain a little dignity before this is over,” it said, unfittingly churning a bit of stomach acid in my innards.

“Do you realize I have an English paper due in the morning? Why tonight?” I responded, unleashing a bitter right hook to my lower abdomen with unmerciful determination. “Take that, you lame excuse for a digestive organ!”

“Lame excuse? This coming from the shell of a man, of who’s girl-like appetite I have been so privileged to employ these last three weeks?” I felt a sharp jab to my pancreas, startled as I wasn’t sure what was more unsettling: the jab to said organ, or that I now knew where my pancreas was by way of active pain receptors. “We must go get one now!” Stomach pressed.

“I will not let that filth into my body.” A vision flashed in my mind, projecting a scene of me, spaced out and delirious by the end of my last bout of indulgence. This had been during a momentary suspension of will power, resulting in the victimization of my digestive system and a testimony of the desperation of a college eating habit. I swung my left elbow, landing another punishing hit to my incessant foe.

This time I felt the reprisal while being educated on just how close the stomach, when personified, actually is to the male reproductive system.

“You exaggerate this all too much. I’m asking only with intent to take the edge off. I know you feel it too and we could both benefit,” my gastronomical assailant adjured.

I reacted once again, enacting what would have looked like a self-performed Heimlich maneuver but this time with a feint sense of doubt permeating my conscious. Perhaps a little taste wouldn’t hurt and in the end it could help me feel better rested come morning. My considerations were interrupted by a wafting smell of grease and frying oil. That cheat! He’d called in reinforcements from the smelling receptors in the brain to further tantalize my resolve, and it was starting to work. But no, I would stand my ground.

And oh how I did, for the better part of another thirty seconds, amid a valiant exchange of blows, before I ashamedly caved in to temptation and a chronic longing for synthetic, flavor-injected beef and cheese, sandwiched between two paper-thin buns.

The next thing I know, I’m sitting outside the nearest McDonalds at 2:30 am, enraptured in a taste induced, euphoric coma of flavor and delight. Stomach and I are throwing back old stories of the good old days when mom would cook us dinner each night and life was simpler. Stomach wins once again and I’m too belligerent with satisfaction to even care. This is the portrait of a man broken, and a recurring struggle in my life, of which I will one day overcome. Until then, however, let me introduce you to the insidiously irresistible McDonald’s double cheeseburger. Enjoy it and be merry.

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Protein deficiency is a serious cause of ill health and death in developing countries.... Protein deficiency plays a part in the disease kwashiorkor.... Protein deficiency can lead to reduced intelligence or mental retardation.
-Wikipedia


As if muscular atrophy wasn't already a pressing enough issue in my life (due to my scholarly and workload attributed restrictions on athletics), I now find my self coming to terms with the realities of having to feed my self on a daily basis, the ensuing weight loss, and the lingering question of what "kwashiorkor" is. The result to date, is a new appreciation for all things edible: Flour, water, and baking powder laid out on a frying pan suddenly entices the pallet like sirloin on the grill. Coffee is now an official food group, ibuprofen is an appetizer, and the communion plate at church looks disturbingly more like an hors d'oeuvres platter each week. Thank high heavens for peanut butter and Cliff Bars.

Quest of late:

-find the cash cab

-find/capture/synthesize/kill, and then eat, meat.

... and an umbrella. not to eat but just to have, it's wet here.

Eeezee Streeet

So never worry about tomorrow, because tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."
-Gospel of Mathew


An interesting experience often occurs when I'm at church. Amidst the usual pressures and, now school induced, anxiety from the trivially hectic American life I lead, I receive a dose of spiritual valium to the brain and find myself in a sensational moment of repose. The problems that leach onto the recesses of my mind are neutralized and I receive a mental point of clarity, if only for a little while. My schedule instantly seems less pressing, school appears as the exaggeration it really is, and my anxieties are clarified as just a waste of increased blood pressure. It's a process that's endorsed even by secular psychology: that of putting your life, and its affairs, in perspective. A good church service for me (most often the time of worship), or even sometimes a good lecture, or a good book, is what facilitates this process in my own life. The problem is that I think I sometimes misinterpret these feelings to a self-destructive, rather than self-furthering, level:

If I accept that tomorrow will take care of itself and shrug off whatever matter might have me anxious, then I tell myself that investing my nerves in anything other than short term is a vain pursuit. After all God knows my problems and they aren't too big for him, and so begins a downward spiral. Why worry? Ok I won't worry. Well what makes me worry? School makes me worry. Homework makes me worry. I shall expose both for what they really are. Vanities says the preacher! I will go get some Chinese instead of working on this paper and tomorrow can worry about itself. Yes, the divine hand will write my paper: that is what faith is.

...or not. Vexed, am I. More on this in the future.

College: what?

"Josh If you come back home from New York sporting a soul patch and carrying a messenger bag, I'll knock you out."
-Alex Harding, a fond farewell.





I go to school wearing a tie on most days.

I'm in college.

I'm just as confused as you.

But sometimes life just catches you off guard. I'm living in New York City, couped up in a mid-town Manhattan apartment and going to school in the Empire State Building, courtesy of The King's College. It's a good life but slightly terrifying at the same time. The realization has been setting in that my attempt to keep up my writing habits through the upkeep of this blog has actually given me a false sense of confidence going into this academic year. Professors, for instance, don't readily warm up to the unrestrained use of incomplete sentences (especially ones placed in textual limbo ex."I'm in college"-see above), run-on sentences, overly pretentious wording (bull sh*t), or overal general drivel, the whole likes of which I'm more than naturally inclined to do, especially within the undescriminatory boundaries of the blogosphere.

...Now I have to proof read.





However, my apprehensions are currently being distracted by a new-found sense of New Yorker pride, most recently exhibited last night in time square as I got to cast the degrading "your a tourist" stare at the hoard of walkers by.

Also, It should be noted that if at some point I were to show up back home sporting a soul patch, it would not be at the exclusion of other facial hair and therefore an intended look of style. Rather, it would be because that is the only facial hair I can actually grow and therefore less toolish.

Time to bust out the tear-jerking Third Eye Blind choruses...

I do apologize for neglecting the blog for the last week or so... for all you avid and disgruntled viewers out there. During the time that transpired, my sister got married (congrats' to Sean and Anna Dixon) and the rest of summer managed to sneak by me in a way that could only be topped if August's time continuum had been possessed by Chris Angel himself. Now I find myself in the midst of my last night in State College, having just finished all my goodbyes, feeling incredibly nostalgic, sad, excited, old, and anxious, with only a spastic light-fixated moth as a source of companionship.

I'm already starting to miss my friends, I'm not entirely excited about having to make new ones, and State College is slowly slipping into being something of the past. Where did the time go? I feel like I'm watching a movie of my life right now, instead of actually living it out. I guess that's what people sometimes call a surreal experience, and the sensation is something hard to grasp. I'm simply praying that I don't completely crash and burn and that God'll have mercy. hasn't failed yet.

On a lighter note:

We at the Shrink's Hour are happy to inform all our readers that production will continue into the college school year, indefinitely. Lord willing, our next broadcast will be from New York City. Until then.

...

Do not go gentle into that good night!

Regardless of the post time listed (i don't think it's accurate), I'm writing this with about thirty minutes until I get off work at the parking garage for the last time. Yes, It's time for good-bye. Summer is coming to an end and now so is my employment. The very job that spawned this blog is now being put to rest and so I couldn't overlook the acknowledgment that was due. I also intend to honor this time with a sense of brevity and tact. No futilely attempted witticisms, no nostalgic anecdotes, no bombastic run-on sentences, no contrived eulogy in an effort to personify the parking garage booth. Nope, just an honorable farewell to an integral and much loved part of this summer. We laughed, we cried, we sang, we sighed, and now I have to enter the real world and probably succumb to a job that requires movement of the body outside a one foot radius.  In the mean time, hit me with your best shot College, I know you're all talk.

Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you.

Last night I had a dream that I walked into what I think might have been the Gap, and instantly fell victim to a predatory sales stalker.  Salespeople at stores such as these are trained to greet you and offer assistance upon your entrance.  I understand the rational behind this, and for the average person it probably has positive results, but in my case, it sends me into a self-conscious breakdown.  After immediately saying no thanks and that “I’m just here to browse”, I instantly feel like I’m being watched for the duration of my time inside the store.  I can’t help but feel that every step I take is being anticipated and every item I look at is being judged.  The anxiety builds up to a point that I become too scared to show too much interest in any given item, lest I become the newest potential sale in the store and immediately find myself swarmed by the nearest worker.  This very scenario unfolded in my dream, leading to what became a very Jason Bourne-like, cat-and-mouse sequence in which I found myself running through the store trying to evade the salesmen tracking me down.   This neurotic paranoia usually deters me from doing any shopping other than what my mom brings home or what can be found online.  A social handicap?   Just maybe.

 Further self analysis might reveal that I have comfort abandonment issues.  I have a bubble that I like to maintain and when it gets popped either because it’s been invaded or I try to step out, I usually become mentally unraveled.   Sometimes you’re either in your element or your not.  John Goodman understood that.

 Take our next scene for example.  A simple trip to Wal-Mart.  On one such occasion I needed to restock on some white t-shirts.  Get in, buy the pack of shirts, get out. That simple. False.  I instantly find my self a rookie amongst seasoned veterans, and I know the regulars can smell the fresh meat. This time I’m not just talking about the sales people.  Wal-Mart is the Mecca-like daily destination of just about every mom in the United States.  Who am I to encroach?  There I come, walking through the door, breaking a cold sweat, palms clammy, and a slight nervous twitch.  There are moms carrying three kids in two arms with a fourth riding under the cart, all under the age of 5, who are burning ground past me through the aisles, while I’m walking through the shopping labyrinth like a stunned lab rat, asking the greeter if they sell in house directional maps.  Very quickly I found myself once again out of my element and out the front door.  I become inexplicably anxious when I’m amongst so many people who know what they’re doing.  I think that’s how the universe wants it though.  Those who shop, should shop, and those who are socially inept and suffer crowd induced anxiety, should remain in private and closed quarters unless accompanied by a chaperone.

 

 

 

People I respect... heroes of mine would be, Bob Hope. Umm, Abraham Lincoln definitely. Bono... and probably God would be the fourth one.

The greatest effort to date on combating the war on hunger:

The Taco Bell 99 cent value menu. 

period.

not Oprah, not the Peace Corps, not the adoption efforts of Angelina Jolie, not Brad Pitt by proxy, not the republicans, no the democrats, not topic related Facebook groups, not imported videos with U2 playing in the background, not student activists at school, not that feed children rice game online.

nope.  It all comes down to a few choice pseudo-mexican-american burritos perfectly designed to satisfyingly stimulate the hunger receptors in the brain and then immediately paralyze the digestive system into never wanting to eat again.

"is that a double beefy cheese burrito or the hand of God?"

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State College is small. Small towns mean frequent encounters with vague acquaintances- acquaintances that stir up old memories of high school.....

two cars pull in parking next to each other in the parking lot before school. both drivers end up getting out at the same time. Neither know each other that well but proceed to make quaint small talk. 

me: uh hey what's going on

girl: oh hi...hey what's that? are you making a project for shop class?

me: um, what do you mean?

girl: oh you know, right behind you silly.

me: do you mean my car? 

girl: oh I'm so sorry I thought you were modifying a go-cart or something like that

me: uh....no. It's just a small car. If we all drove around in SUV's yours wouldn't be as special. consider it a favor.

girl: yeah my daddy bought me this for my sweet sixteen. Lindsey Lohan was so driving this model in  a recent People Magazine issue.  I think she was doing lines of coke off the steering wheel before she got pulled over. wow so counter-cultural of her.

me: yeah, Hollywood looks on in complete disgust.

girl: The steering wheel is actually contoured quite nicely to do so if you look at mine. I don't think I would have thought of that, people just don't give her enough credit these days. Plus, heroin chic is so hot right now.

me: ...yeah.... so is that tea you're drinking or-

girl: -no, well this is coffee, I got it from Webster's Bookstore and Cafe, I like refuse to buy from Starbucks anymore.

me: how trendy and cool of you.

girl: yeah they're all "corporate" and stuff like that... I refuse to support them.

me: a quizzical look

girl: oh you know, they like oppress people and farmers, and probably benefit from Bush tax cuts.

me: ...is that a term you heard on CNN?

girl: I think my Dad talked about them one time. Anyways, it sounded like he supported it or them or whatever, so I usually just agree with the opposite point of view.  My parents are like so republican it's not even funny.

me: mmhmmm... "anyways" isn't a word by the way.

girl: huh?

me: well it's just "anyway", no "s" on the end is all. just pointing it out. never mind.

girl: it doesn't matter either way really if you think about it. Society just wants us to use the proper form. We shouldn't let that effect the way we live. maybe using "anyways" is my own form of protest.

me: a regular Rosa Parks, you are.

girl:  I've been listening to The Beatles a lot lately so yeah, pretty independent thinker these days.  Anyways, I just don't support big companies and stuff, they're all corrupt.  We need to bring the power back to the people.

me: your shirt from Abercrombie, stretched out to look like a hippie sweater echos your cries of indignation.

girl: hehe, I have to go to my environmental club meeting before school starts.

me: so does your SUV run off vegetable oil?

girl: no... but the only alternative would be for me to bike to school, and if I bike to school then i get really tired, and when I get tired, I start to sweat, and when I sweat, I break out, and if I break out then I'm no use anyone am I?

me: a sacrificial means to a noble end.

girl: exactly, I really do have to go. Ah where's my phone, omg I need it, where is it!

me: expecting a call?

girl: no, I need have it up to my ear like I'm talking so I don't look like a total loser when I walk across the parking lot by my self.

me: the hardships your life employs- I consider my self blessed.

girl: whatever, I'll just have my daddy buy me a new one tomorrow. Well good luck with your proj...oh I mean have fun driving your car around. um, maybe I'll see you around.

me: (contemplatively pensive)...

                        

 .... I hate my life.

Another day in State College

Only in America...







http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/01/science/01muscle.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin#


...I mean seriously?

"so you're saying you used to write each individual letter with your hand... haha..oh your serious?"

"Josh, you tool. I can't believe you betrayed me for a device that represents a line of machines that will inevitably subvert the greater human intelligence in the universe and eventually take over the world. You're only a shell of the man I thought you were."

-my bank account





"Hey buddy, whats wro...oh don't cry. shhh, there-there, I'll be your friend. Don't you worry, I'll take care of everything."

-my new Macbook

Youtube some Batman Beyond- such a good series... You can be cool and do it at the same time.... I think.

"Putting a title in quotation marks makes it seem more significant, as if there must be more to it"

The end of today will mark exactly three weeks of work left for the summer, swish!

I'm almost nervous that I won't remember how to stand, or that my body will be immunocompromised from lack of contact with outside air. fingers crossed.

First draft lacked a title, the absence was inducing an obsessive disorder

An ode to the morning routine:







I'll admit it. Sometimes I go to bed with a casual smirk on my face at the prospect of enjoying my morning cup of coffee. 100 mg's of pure vein-constricting caffeine pulsating up to the brain in the morning is a paramount component of my daily constitution. But only one component. A man's morning routine is a sacred item, not to be tampered with. It also gives the meaning of "morning" a very relative nature. By my definition, "morning" includes, but is not limited to, the hour and a half time span after one wakes up, regardless of time of day. My morning doesn't discriminate against "mid-afternoon" or "late evening" and neither should yours. When I wake up, the first thing on my mind is successfully negotiating the hazy landscape of rug, hallways, and stairs up to the shower without tripping or smacking my knobby funny bone on whatever obstruction might be in the way. For some this might be a simple task but for me it's a test of physical and mental stamina as my recently awakened brain enters into battle with my activity-resistant muscle and nervous systems. Sometimes I think I might have been a stump in a previous life. On a typical day I have the primordial drive (survivalist attitude once again) to conquer my own inhibiting inertia and reach the shower. The shower marks the point of rebirth. In goes greasy-haired, puffy eyed, semiconscious and fully desensitized Josh, and out comes a rather dapper looking character smelling of coconut cream shampoo, with a suave disposition, and a slight ethereal glow. Kevin Derr once told me that showers get you slightly high because the water vapor created releases large amounts of oxygen into the air that you then inhale. Against my usual skeptical judgement, I have simply taken him at his word on this one. Regardless if it is true, I think I experience a placebo effect each morning and so emerge cool, calm, collected, and using the word "dude" in excess. From the shower I then proceed to the kitchen where I engage in the aforementioned drinking of the coffee. I like a standard two mug's worth: medium roast, dark brew, not too agressive a blend but something bitey enough that my taste buds have something to discuss with one another. I also like to have the morning paper by my side to add a level of sophistication to my ego, however, more often than not, I look down and see headlines such as "Centre County Dairy Princess Queened" and instantly regret my decision. I'm not a big breakfast eater but if I do decide to eat, my carb supplement of choice is usually the English muffin. As any experienced connoisser of European delicacies will tell you, every English muffin has two unique sides: the smaller and the bigger. This wouldn't present a complication if I didn't have two different spreads to apply, that of peanut butter and jelly, but alas, complications ensue. To make a decision on what side to give peanut butter or jelly would be like asking a parent to pick their favorite child. So I remedie the situation by making two muffins thereby giving me four halfs. I then apply each spread to a large half and a small half so no one is left out and then position them big-small-big-small, pb-jelly-jelly-pb, in a circular fashion around my plate. This is the only way to eat an English muffin and maintain order in the universe at the same time. Once the coffee is drunk, the muffins consumed, and the newspaper dissapointedly perused, I can then dub the morning as officially over. To preempt such a routine is blasphemy... especially with talk of summer reading for college... Mom!

currently wondering:

If I need a new hobby.

also, If paragraphs really aren't so overated after all.

Why Heath, why....

note: I know that it's "c'est la vie" and not "selah vee". it was intentional... we're not mainstream here.

---

Well, Batman scared me out of at least an octave's worth of vocal puberty development. This is okay though. I've been working on my falsetto singing voice anyway, in anticipation of my new up and coming band, The Falsetto Freakouts: bringing you the very best of Freddie Mercury and a few tastes of The Cranberries, and now there'll be less distinction between that and my normal voice. I'll be able to charm a whole legion of woodland animals to come dance the hokie pokie at will. It really is too bad Heath pulled a James Dean (and I say this because he did not kill him self) and died young. But then again, third movies in a trilogy have a way of dissapointing. ex Spiderman 3, Pirattes of the Caribbean 3, Land Before Time 3, so perhaps there is some silver lining. My advice is if you go and see it, take with you a childhood stuffed animal or blanket, or even a small puppie, to help you find your happy place when you find your self in a fetal position, sucking your thumb because Gotham City has sucked all the hope out of you. Just remember it is pretend.



in other news:

Today I reaped the unforeseen benefits of having a soon to be married sister at home. I was at work, as I still currently am, and was feeling rather famished. I called Anna to let her know I'd be working late, as the rest of the fam was out of town, and she asked if I wanted her to bring me something to eat. "sure maybe some pb&j or a bagel. You could toast the bread if your feeling gourmet."... A half hour later I'm handed a bag with a large dish of broccoli fettucini alfredo, two pieces of garlic bread, and a house salad. Beverages included a bottle of water and a cup of coffee for a revitalizing night cap. I could practically hear the wedding bells. The whole meal was energized with the presence of impending wifeness. Right place at the right time...yeah, this guy. Thank you Anna.




I must be going now. I just noticed a bunch of ants crawling around on the floor by my feet and now I keep feeling fake itches on my legs and arms. They keep turning out to be false alarms but I know the little buggers are planning something.

Still watching House. Still loving it.

Well if there ever was a suitable time to be sporting a freshly injected tattoo on my shoulder blade, it would have been this past weekend... but selah vee, eh? Arts Fest puts central PA on the map for four solid days each summer, ushering in the best and sometimes not so brightest of what the area has to offer. A cross section of the masses that flock to, and accumulate in, State College's humble abode would reveal everything from trendy aspiring artists, belligerent frat boys, rambunctious teenagers, and the more docile regulars who savor the yearly traditions. My particular favorites are the various practitioners of the first amendment who take up rank on the sidewalk at the intersection of College and Allen. Three you can usually rely on are the anti-war protestors, the marajuana legalization hippies (skipped out this year), and at least one street preacher telling us we're all going to hell. The former of which I say more power to you, the latter of which I think just needs a hug. And then of course the weekend always finds closure on Old Main lawn for the Earthtones concert where it is persuasively argued that the complexities and problems of this world can be easily remedied with reggae music and undignified dancing. Hard to disagree. In the end I appreciate every aspect, good or bad, for being a contributing factor in what I've come to know and love as Arts Fest weekend. Of course now that it is over, it begs the question of what to do now in State College...

















.... not sure.


I did wake up this morning with an inexplicable urge to play chess. To satiate this desire will require me first to relearn how to play chess... and then to find somebody willing to get on my socially compromised level and play me....offer is out there (game only valid if played outside at a park or in a library. wardrobe must consist of anything your grandpa might wear).

The best advice I can give to the general public is to find a frisbee and take to the grass. Your day will instantly feel better. Air crisper. Sun brighter. Sky bluer (more blue?).

We Will Overcome.

-For Michael Doud.

stiff upper lip kid. stiff.

"I plan on being a college drop out in two years."...."I'm not sure that's something your supposed to plan dude."

College is now 46 days away and in light of its nearing presence I've been considering what it's going to take to survive. A list of essential items to be sent off with. Now I'm not exactly planning on being completely destitute or necessarily limited to a bare minimum life style (although it's definitely within the realm of possibility), but I've recently read Into The Wild and I watch a lot of survival shows on Discovery Channel (as well as McGyver) so I like to entertain fantasies of a survivalist lifestyle. Things seem cooler that way. If I think of New York City as a type of concrete jungle, me against its elements, my life becomes that much more interesting. This is what I have thus far.



Munchies:


coffee

english muffins

granola

peanut butter

ibuprofen

yogurt

coffee

meat

pizza bagel bites



Non Munchies:


computer- (to carry with me in case I need to look up ways to survive without technology, ex. camping in central park)

moleskine notebook- (so I can look contemplative and poetic at will, especially when dining at hip coffee shops)

tactful assortment of smart sounding books I've never read- (to make my roommates and those who frequent my apartment think I'm a lot smarter than I am)

hammock- (just really want one)

ipod- (to carry on me with prerecorded positions on various political and world issues so I can cheat when conversing with my peers. also music)

lay z boy recliner- ( I suspect it will transcend the generational gaps indefinitely)

-donate at will.

news bulletin:

-Just watched Across The Universe. Besides being an awesome movie, it's one of those movies that effectively makes smoking look cool: currently wishing my asthmatic lungs were infallibly withstanding so I could be a paint flinging, chain smoking, scarf wearing, free spirited artist.

-Recently burned some cash at Denny's: looking forward to being old so I can qualify for the senior discounted meals on the last page of the menu. How righteous it will be.

-Penn State is right now hosting the largest tournament in the state for high school girl basketball players: currently terrified of a all high school girl basketball players... it's just not what you'd expect.

Who's ready for the Dark Knight?- This Guy

"What, you wanna mess with the Geo?... You wanna talk about the environment? Yeah let's talk about the environment ******!!" -Miles Cummins: from the backseat with conviction.

Kind of like a vespa with four wheels, the Geo metro, at first glance, doesn't come off as the kind of vehicle that would evoke feelings of ego-driven, defensive pride, or shouts of derisive smack talk on the down town strip, but behold: to each his own. One man's pansy-feathered, four cylinder, glorified gulf cart, is another man's beacon of speedy stealth, deceptive agility, and a delightfully well endowed fuel economy. There's nothing macho about spewing dollar bills out the tail pipe or your GMC Denali, but everything sexy about over 40 mpg highway coming from the light weight's corner - suckha!

also. Cheers to Lemonsoul. I was just at a concert they put on at the diamond in Boalsburg. Old men laughed, young men sang, children frolicked, and house moms got to relive the glory days- wine glass in hand, a carefree sway, and old memories of when Tom Petty would sing them through the night (tonight Dan Vidmar will have to do!). I was reminded that Rusted Root is synonymous with summer time music and that once Matt Kenny starts dancing in any social setting, it's impossible to feel shy your self. There are times when I know I will miss this town and getting my suburban socks rocked off is one of them.

cynicism: so hot right now

get some.

- For Cool Ethan

This just in.

Unfortunate realization of the week: Penn State freshmen are now in town for summer session.

Is it somewhat snobbish to look down on new freshmen because I'm a local? maybe. It's probably prejudice to a point but well founded nonetheless. This is one of the rare instances each year when my usual inferiority complex is suspended just long enough for me to feel overconfident and cocky when putzin by a young flock of frosh. They're not especially hard to spot either. A coed group of 10 kids fresh out the nearest dormatory -girls who have yet to obtain their ugg boots and black northface jackets, and guys who have yet to realize that the "I go here" look of penn state basketball shorts and shirts (with a welcome week drawstring bag on their back) is not going to give them an advantage over the 40,000 other guys who also "go here", with making it with the ladies. It's also weird this year because I'm the same age as all the new freshmen- this either makes them look younger , or me feel older. I'll accept both and further inflate my self esteem bubble. I've also realized that the only time in a kid's entire teenage years that you'll see them walking in public with both parents and no siblings is on a college visit/move in day.

Potentially very poor life decision of the day: deciding to go to college my self.

Unless The Kings College will accept "I owe you"s written on post it notes, there could be some hang ups when it comes to actual payment. I've always been good at keeping a low profile though, so I'll simply tip toe along the sides of the hallway, try not to raise my hand too often, and always wear a pair of running shoes in preparation for a quick getaway when approached by an administrative looking person. My papers will be written under the alias Carter Fairwetherford: child of New England rich, upper-class status. with a credible line of tuition payments, a reliable source of funds, and a mean back hand in tennis.

Fantastic discovery in the past 3 hours: Generically branded, monstrously large, bags of cereal at the end of the isle.

I'm talking a dog food bag's worth of corporate free, bulk quantity, cheerios for less coin than a regular box. Great jumping statues of Budha! it was a good day for grocery shopping.

"turn up the tv, my food is crunching too loud in my mouth."

I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge Post Cereal on new "Honey Bunches of Oats with just the Bunches". Now for clarity's sake and in response to a recent facebook post, this does not mean bunches, minus the oats and honey. As the literal interpretation of the name suggests, a "bunch" consists "of oats" with honey as a binding element of the overall cluster. This new cereal is without any of the flakes and such, leaving the consumer with only the clusters or "bunches" (it's basically a granola cereal). I give Post two thumbs up for taking the initiative in a new direction. This former "old person cereal", as the wise Tommy Bruce once put it, has now been reduced to a more youthful and exciting quality. More satisfying crunch, less soggy heartbreak. It's a shame more companies don't catch on to the "why didn't we think of this before?" trend as perpetuated by a few standouts. One might allude to positive innovations such as Smuckers Uncrustables pb&j sandwiches (without the crust) that gained a following in the early 2000's ,or the late 90's sensation of Gogurt yogurt, a real light bulb idea that generated much talk in the portable snack sector.

...I only wish I could have been there for the corn dog.

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"I come from a land down under... something something Hear the thunder"

At work today a costumer pulls up, I say "hello", he reciprocates, handing me the money, I put the money in the drawer and then say "hello" as I give him his change. He just looked at me with a more than perplexed look on his face. Quickly, he regained composure of his expression, although his face easily betrayed the feelings of laughter and weak pitty being directed my way. I felt like a goldfish or Dori from Finding Ne... And then the gut-bustingly funny rest of the paragraph that was written past this point was unexpectedly deleted. Special thanks to Dell for making a fine product. I was going to rewrite it but instantly lost all enthusiasm with the previous topic at hand (rest assured, I was going somewhere with the finding nemo bit..and there was lip service paid to the childhood memory loss/alzheimer's connection that lied in the wake of my already stated blunder).....and so inspiration can be as fleeting as that kids. Maybe I was being handed a lesson: live in the moment and act on impulse because you never know when you may lose your train of thought and find your self left with a blank slate. Probably not... there's nothing even funny about what I'm saying at this point. On a more serious note...





... I just finished the fourth season of LOST. Sweet mother of Gandhi.

I am a kid in withdrawal. The emptiness I'm feeling at not being able to feed my addiction for never ending, and unexplicably contrived drama , I think, should give me some form of credibility with even the most unruly addicts of the drug culture. Heroin dependency is a serious thing Josh. Well so is Lost. It's like the visual intepretation of crack ( I also think I may be on to uncovering a well kept conspiracy that would lay to rest any disputes about the fact that there are indeed addictive narcotics in every Mcdonald's double cheeseburger- see previous post for further background). I'd gotten so used to there always being another episode to watch online that when I reached the end, the world instantly became a very cold place. Granted, it's not the end of the series, just the season, but still unsettling.

Also, I'm becoming more and more convinced that the writers of Lost secretly own the world's only time machine that they use to jump ahead weeks at a time to see what they've already written, and then return to the present to plan and write accordingly.

ba da dah dat dah...

confession: The E True Hollywood story of Josh Cunningham, were it to be made, would reveal, on any given working night between the hours of 12:00 and 1:00 am, me in the throes of a paralyzingly gripping addiction. It's a vice that crushes every bit of resistance I try to throw at it, ever diminishing my confidence that I am in control of my life.  I think I have a grip; I tell my self "never again" and bite my lower lip with seething determination only to fall victim to my pattern driven, masochistic ways.  "Just a taste, just to level me out until morning, and then I'm cutting it off cold turkey," I tell my self right before drifting into a taste induced euphoric coma of flavor and delight...Let me introduce you to my struggle.  Let me introduce you to the insidiously irresistible McDonald's double cheeseburger.

If there was a fast food infrastructure established 2000 years ago, there's no doubt in my mind that the double cheeseburger would have been sitting ring side for the last supper....or at least it would of been a close second to unleavened bread and wine as chosen by our Lord and Savior.  Inside every "dcb" is a perfect congress of craft and character.  Each one is pregnant with endorphin releasing flavor that draws the body into a rapturous event of ecstasy, made possible only by the working hands of the Mcdonald's late night shift staff.  That might be the key.  To receive the best product, you have to go after hours, where the undistracted and otherwise unbothered late night workers ( I can only imagine) sit diligently, perfecting their life craft, like DaVinci on the canvas, or  Shakespear on the script, one bun on top of burger on top of burger on top of bun at a time.  And I am there to give testimony to their efforts, to be a witness to the gluttonous yet virtuous? creation they call cheeseburger... and it is good.  

Dear Diary,

... Last night the intervention happened.  Everyone was there along with a man who I would find out is my new doctor.  His name is Tom and it turns out he's a lifetime recovering Taco Bell 1/2 lb-cheesy-bean-and-rice-burrito addict!  He's really nice and seems to understand me even though he was into a different franchise scene.  

Things were awkward at first when I entered the house, I had just come in from another errant midnight run to the local Mickey D's.  The bag was still in my hand and everything.  No excuses to dig myself out of that hole but I think now that it was for the best.  Tom and I talk a lot and he says I'm making great progress. I think I am too.  I have to go now though, it's scrabble night in the lounge.

-josh

"were not gonna take it"

If anyone sees Karen Cunningham in passing, lobby her to let me get a tattoo. Any and all forms of persuasion are welcome, but don't be scared to be direct, "Mrs. Cunningham this bunt cake is deliciousletjoshhaveatattoo. Did you do something differentlyhe'sturning18?

I will, no doubt, be doing my part. Excessive nagging ("Johnny Depp has them so why can't I?"), subliminal messaging, finding impromptu ways to foster discussion on the importance of self expression through art, hunger strikes, overabundantly well placed postit notes to further facilitate the nagging strategy, leaving messages written in ketchup on my plate after dinner, blaming everything that goes wrong in my life on my lack of a tattoo and then faking a catatonic state until she caves, and blaring "we will overcome" Nelson Mandela speeches at 3:00 am from my room.

"would you like some fries with that shake?"

I worked today:


car pulls up to the booth-



me: Hi, how're you doing today?

lady: I think you should know how terribly designed this parking garage is!

me: Ma'am I'm absolutely flattered that you would pin me as having the credentials necessary to design such a structure.

lady: I mean do they really expect people to park here?!

me: Certainly not miss, the "garage" was contructed by the psych department to conduct human-scale labyrinth experiments.

lady: What's tuition cost these days? you pump in over $30k a year per head and they can't manage even the seemingly rudimentary task of providing adequate parking. They have to erect some half-brained, ill conceived monstrostity.

me: You know, just picture the ol' mouse sniffing out a piece of cheese through the maze, getup. Only they used people and such. The 60's were a wild time for the world of academia. They had to shut it down though, something about embittered women coming by and whining about not being able to find their way through.

lady: and I should have you know I was almost late for a meeting.

me: Makes you wonder though. Even with the plain, in sight, directional signs posted and hanging from the ceiling, you'd think they were making the maze too easy.

lady: Gah! and now I'm expected to pay a dollar per hour. what a rip off.

me: Today it stands more as an school commemorated historical landmark. A few years back some joker even labled it "Parking Garage". I guess that's some ironical humor. All in good fun though.

lady: So it's 6:30 now, I got in here at 2:30 so it should be four dollars.

me: What was that? Oh yes, right. Well, actually make that five dollars, it's now 2:31 which means you're now on to your fifth hour. Nice chatting it up though. People are so reserved these days, you can't make quaint conversation.

five minutes and a woman scorned earful later...

me: have a nice day!

car drives off-

Rise up, ye peons

Well, I'm off work but it's raining in State College today.  Now any fellow SC native may be inclined to say that a generous helping of cloud cover is more than common in this overcast ridden town.  That is true, but that's just about all it every amounts to.  In reality we actually dodge the ever-seemingly imminent rain shower and are left with a middle-earth type, uhoh Frodo's having another existential, epileptic episode so lets blot out the sun for the rest of the movie for dramatic effect, view of Happy Valley.  I think it's been said that SC is like the third cloudiest city in the country.  I would not put it past us.  I also wouldn't put it past Elijah Wood to ruin every movie he so flamboyantly trounces upon (If anyone's seen Green Street Hooligans- kind of like 300, meets angry Jude Law, meets Fight Club, meets Warriors, meets a shot to the hip of pure testosterone, meets Elijah Wood asking if anyone could use some neosporin and maybe a few minutes to just talk about feelings rather than throwing fists).  The rain's somewhat refreshing though so I can't complain. 

I  recently watched Charlie Bartlett.  Not a bad movie, kind of a hybrid between a 90's smoking in the boys room and a modern 2k feel, but what made the viewing significant was that it was my first teenage high school movie that I've watched since no longer being a high school student.  I was only about 10 minutes into it when I was about to scathingly cast a verbal assault on the many injustices of high school, when I remembered that I was breathing freedom's air and so reposed my angst and left the battle front I once so knowingly loved, for the next generation. good luck. sucks to be you.  I will continue, however, on the occasional pass by the high school, to bite my thumb with bitter indignation. let us never forget.

"where's the Bryce Stadium?"

If a tree falls in a forest and no one's around to hear it does it make a sound? I'm wondering the same thing in regards to this blog. But regardless of the, perhaps, futile nature of my current endeavor, I figure why not. It's summer, I just graduated, and I spend my working hours, one of which I'm earning right now, sitting in a glass box called a parking garage kiosk, watching cars enter and exit alll night. 80% of those exiting have either an electronic transponder which makes the gate go up automatically or a hanging tag that still allows them to park for free but leaves me with the task of lifting my index figer and pressing the F1 button on the computer causing the gate to go up once a again. Every once in a while a rogue visitor to the garage comes out and needs to be charged money throwing off my otherwise established zen. I grin and bare it for the 30 seconds lost as I make the money exchange, and then promptly regain my post in front of the penn state provided computer, slowly but surely burning out my retina as I search for any and all forms of entertainment on the world wide web. The result to date is three and a half seasons of LOST permeated through my consciousness, along with the fourth season of House md, (I think) the fourth season of Hell's Kitchen (whaat ah ya blahty duin?), a disgustingly unmeasurable archive of watched youtube videos the majority of which probably made me, uh dummer, or at least set me back four school grade's worth of maturity, an online login to the newyorktimes.com, enough books read to seriously diminish any chance I might have had of one day being cool, a small cast of broadway quality shadow puppets, and an ever growing confidence that if I ever get trapped in an elevator with a buddha statue, it would lose composure first.

And of course the most recent byproduct of my seclusion being this blog site. I've always liked the idea of having a blog, mostly because I usually unload my mental baggage on the nearest unfortunate ear anyway, but writing it down seems more pretentious. oh well. My dinner break is near approaching and so I must be signing off. until next time.