The New Me Will Still Run in the Rain

People generally respond to about 70 percent of what I do with a stern inquiry. They ask me, "What were you thinking?" in a tone that contains a host of further questions.

And more often than not, I respond with an overreaction rife with sarcastic disdain accompanied by raised eyebrows which invites the question, what were YOOOOOUUUUUU thinking ... in bed?"

It's a tacit rhetorical assumption that extends the scope of confusion and invites parallel comparisons of me to mules with heehawing futility. So effectively, I answer their question with another question.

You are invited to imagine what it would be like to walk in my shoes and make zero sense regularly, but it's difficult. I submit to you that you have no idea at all where to begin the leisure expedition to becoming an all-nonsense person.

With age, comes wisdom, so they say. This is why I picked up a book recently and analyzed its cover intensely when some jackass told me "It's a real page turner." Thanks for the tip, but I know how books work.

But I got older earlier this month and the natural order of things would suggest that I abandon these tricky childish ways of mine.

In a grotesquely limited way, I am good at impressing people with this ability to celebrate nonsense. Need more evidence you say?

I purchased a yacht from my high interest savings account. Yes. I don't live in Cape Cod, nor do I own boat shoes or rock neatly tied sweaters around Ivy League T-shirts. I suspect that I will have zero use for this water traipsing piece of decadence.

Having ripened to a new grizzled age of over-the-hill twenty-something earlier this month, I've noticed some changes that likely explain this purchase. So sit down, sip on your fat free whatever latte and get to know the new me.

Growing older is a tamped-down variant of suckyness that points to responsibility with manic zingers, and to some it's more depressing than a Zoloft commercial played upside down. You'll have to forfeit your affinity for Lucky Charms, and you will begin to see truths. For example, saying Lucky Charms has 10 vitamins and minerals is like saying there are inflatable bouncy castles in hell. You realize your aspirations to get neck tattoos will effectively render you unemployable and you will ultimately acquire a taste for money, and reasonable solutions.

This was challenging, but under a high powered microscope I can now study my growing inclination to settle down and become a yuppie. I hear yuppies are fun to emulate, mainly because they enjoy activities like building a stronger vocabulary and critiquing the shit out of everything. They are also ultra conscientious about their lifestyle.

I rarely drive now. I take my road bike everywhere, and embrace alternative transportation like a newborn baby who makes rainbows with every hug. I'm considering ziplining my way to work, actually.

I envision a new job with high-rise office spaces, Yoga ball chairs, gourmet chefs, expense accounts, and nubile interns who will polish my shiny shoes. I will entertain myself in social circles that discuss the New Yorker magazine, upside-down mortgages and refer to everything in golf metaphors.

Having such goals means I can no longer achieve the high score in Ms. Pacman and then remove my shirt and walk around downtown pretending I was a member of the U.S. Olympic Swim Team, because grown-ups don't participate in such antics.

Growing older also narrows my hopes of falling ass first into huge piles of dough if I'm still working at News 8, so I'm thinking with ferociously imaginative power which triggers chortling snort fests, how to get rich quick. I've heard it all, too. Click here to see me in all my News 8 glory, lackthereof.

"J.J., write a book"
"Dude, swallow some intense hallucinogens and then a dictionary and write"
"You should strip for old women at nursing homes"
"Become a post-college graduate-post modern dropout and bottle your inspiration in the form of perspiration and sell it to abstract artists for oil paintings"
"Sell a kidney, having two is a little excessive anyways"
"Find a rich girlfriend and dump her when she gives you everything"

I will channel my creative gusto as an entrepreneur with patented products to market, like a stay young forever drink. It will be a life-prolonging serum of refined alien ore and minotaur semen. I will make millions. It'll be tight! Like Sher's face.

Living downtown Austin has made me think this way. I even caught myself saying "Hey there, chief" in lieu of the typical "whaddup, bitch." Even my wardrobe is slowly being manipulated by yuppie tendencies, with high quality, swanky threads that are reserved for GQ cover shoots.

There's a fine line between yuppie and douchebag, and I'm walking the tightrope, poised to spill to my doom as a full blown adult looking back at the old me who was only snobby when it comes to music and whose mom I chose to fornicate with.

I've been hovering in the pretentious stratosphere of music snobbery ever since I can remember, but you wouldn't know what that feels like because gravity has rendered you incapable of attaining such heights of splendor to even recognize it. I breathe the good air up here, (great for my asthma) but you intensely inhale the exhaust of petroleum vapidity through a straw, sucking at the very notion of attaining higher sensibility in aural pleasure. (Douchebag assertion).

Therefore, I sometimes plummet to your earthly level to prove that I am not a douchebag through acts of generosity. This is performed by bestowing gems of awesome music for you to enjoy. Not today though, since I'm too busy playing my hand in investing stock options as a newbie yuppie. Perhaps next blog, I'll send some new music your way. But this is the yuppie blog.

I also wanted to nform you that in my last week alone I attended the Ratatat show and hung out with them too, saw White Denim shred the Mohawk and am gearing up for FOUR amazing days at ACL. Typical week for music.

Continuing this yupster theme, it's safe to say I have taken twenty dollar bills and left them in places you've never dreamed, like trashcans, paper shredders, Zaire, or the front shirt pocket of a fast food cashier. But you, ... you manage to take said twenty dollar bill to far reaching places that I will never venture to ... like seven days worth of meals with the remaining money being stashed under your pillow. So consider my purchase of a yacht a precursor to what is to come.

Picture it now: Donald Trump and Bill Gates made love, and sprouted this beautiful embryo, then gave it to Prince to store in his multi-billion dollar Armani velvet coat pocket, nestled and incubated it, and when it hatched the result is a stylish time piece from the future that deposits $1 trillion dollars into a mutual fund bearing my name on it with every tick and tock, because time is money and money is what we're here for! Zing.

But yesterday I was co-mingling (because yuppies don't hang out) and I postulated an even deeper truth about the new me. I reminded myself that I'm a modest dude, despite what this dope ass blog dictates, but even my own laurels have been jaded by old age and refined goals, which brings me to the second part of this blog that will beg the question, "What were you thinking?"

I bought a cardigan sweater, which doesn't completely negate my previous claim that I don't tie sweaters around my torso. But that's when I knew I had crossed the line. Or was it that I am truly growing up and thinking about my future now? I doubt a cardigan sweater points to either - but it says, "Hey, slow down JJ, open a book, kick back and and make dinner dates with your girl friend and others." I do enjoy living the lavish life, but I don't think it's quite me. I go to music shows, tirelessly work to grow a maniac mustache and maintain authenticity under the street guise of keeping it real.

So how can I possibly be a yuppie? I am not. And that's why I'm totally joking about the yacht. Fuck that shit. I could care less about money. I've learned that much and realized that with my new old age. And I don't think I had ANYONE fooled about me being a yuppie either. I'm back on track with things and will start blogging twice a week. Get ready to scoff at me twice a week.

Here's me after the marathon relay being all nonsensical.

Unnatural Thoughts on Keeping It Organic

As any well informed, modern thinking man of wit and style who pens original thought as often as he fathers nonsensical free flowing bullshit will tell you, there's a market for fortune cookie writers at Whole Foods (gluten free, of course).



I know this because I once scribbled two sentences on a Whole Foods napkin and pasted it to a wall and it yielded astonishing results.

A few people read it. They showed it to others. Others began reading it. Soon, they noticed changes: They felt younger, more alive. Their warts and blemishes disappeared. Their reproductive organs swelled with lustful fury. Their hearts were filled with song and they limped from painful laughter. They reclaimed their wayward palates and found chiseled six-pack abs bursting from beneath their T-shirts.

Rumors surfaced that relief organizations got a copy of what I wrote and stopped shipping food, and began simply dropping copies of the napkin on hunger-stricken villages, which miraculously revived the area.

What can I say? I have an uncanny knack for writing nuggets of fecal repose that not only belong atop urinal cakes to reflect upon, but in your pocket during times of duress as well. That my friend, is called wisdom!!!!!!! I think.

But my wisdom is the kind you find in unnatural places, so this brings me to the inspiration driving today's blog, which of course has an unknown destination, but comes in the form of organic, freshly picked thoughts that occurred while shopping at Whole Foods.


Yes, it has been suggested among highly refined circles that I am a magnet for finely crafted laughs, both good and bad. If those laughs were physically manifested as iron filings, they would fly to me. They would cluster on my body, perhaps in the shape of a handlebar mustache, actually.

While I was standing at the produce section today I began to delve into some super deep thought about truths and myths of what's real, and natural, both in Whole Foods and in my head.

As I stabbed a diced pineapple with a toothpick (free sample, bitch) and picked up some bananas I let some wicked thoughts flow out in unruly tangles and watched a sordid revolution unfold in my head.

I'm a healthy mutha' 'ucka who prefers freshness, but when it comes to bananas, I'm impatient and prefer not to wait for the green ones to ripen. Therefore I opt for sullied, bruised and wise ones on the brink of becoming charred and black from time.

If we consider the produce food shopping experience to be akin to picking up women, then I was standing at the intersection of epiphany and fantasy. And then I looked around.

I thought to myself: "Why is that cougar rubbing eggplants and looking at me like I've set her hormones in a tizzy?"

I was appalled. No, I do not want some shimmying soccer mom with lonely housewife agendas staring at me. Maybe a little ...

There comes a time in every man’s life when he reaches a sacred right of passage, and the lessons he has learned congeal into a thick grease of responsibility and maturity. That said, sure, I've always wanted to hit up the organic produce section and ironically pick up more than just apples ... i.e. numbers, staggering cougars, fallen expectations and dignity, but no more.

If I were a Whole Foods fortune cookie writer, I would say:

"How do you like them apples? Beware, the only unnatural things are the highly coiffed blonds who shop here."

Zing.

I then made my way over to the meat market section. I wanted to find the finest quality barbecue and burgers. Instead, I postulated who the butcher reminded me of ... and instantly, I figured it out!

That stupid fucking Microsoft Office paper clip. Yes. He wouldn't let me decide on my own what I wanted to eat, treating me like some incompetent vegetarian who enjoys having his hand held at all times. The paper clip guy never lets me write on my own.

That annoying paper clip talked to me once while I was writing a letter.

Paper Clip: Let me help you with that. Oh, come on. I don't want anything. I just want to lend a helping hand.

Me: Fuck off you little shit. [Click]

Paper Clip: Look at me, I have eyebrows! I need attention. But that is all I need. Feed me attention and I will solve all your problems. It looks like you're writing a letter. I love writing letters. I love reading letters. I just finished reading The Collected Letters of Van Gogh in three volumes. That man could write a letter. Plus, he could paint. But you, look at you. You can't spell. I have to AutoCorrect most of your words. Don't be mad, I have eyebrows!

Me: WTF? Go away you little krud.

Paper Clip: It looks like you're writing a BORING letter. Let me spice it up with quotes. Did you notice that below my eyebrows are actual eyes? These eyes of mine have seen many things but nothing more pathetic than your attempts to write a letter. Click F10 and I'll replace that uninteresting, grammatically weak, lexically poor sentence with one that will— Please don't, I have more suggestions. I can change shapes! Look, I can—

(CLICK. CLICK.CLICK. ... Vanishes.) Never saw him again. And I never wanna see that annoying butcher again either.

From that, I give you a fortune cookie gem of wisdom:

"Avoid meat eating uncertainty by surrounding yourself with vegetarians and watch your testicles ascend into your stomach region."

After the meat market, I moseyed on over to the candy section. I gawked at the flowing chocolate fountain and began thinking very inappropriate things, like how it might feel to rub the chocolate over my bare nipples while the girl behind the counter fed me strawberries, topless.

The illicit illusion lasted approximately two-and-a-half seconds, after which my powers of imagination failed and I fought back an overwhelming desire to weep, because I might have been enjoying that moment of imagination a little too much.

Fortune cookie says:

Following the edict of never playing with your food is nonsense. Play with that shit like you're retarded."

I was forced to leave that insular community of sweet insanity due to the sideway stares and I picked up sushi of all things to eat. With no hesitation. I walked over to the checkout line. The checkers are for the most part, really chill and cool. Not on this particular day though.



My checker was a robot (really, a robot) and said some scripted joke to me which won a blank stare from me. I began to wonder what it must be like if an actual robot were performing stand up comedy. He would totally get a lackluster response like the one I gave the checker.

In the spirit of robot awesome shit, hit this track featuring HEALTH.

Crystal Castles - "Crimewave (Crystal Castles vs HEALTH)"
It would likely go like this:

Robot: What level is everyone's excitement currently at?

Crowd: ...

Robot: I'm sorry. I cannot hear you. Would you please repeat your excitement, preferably at a louder volume? Thank you. I am also excited.

Crowd: ...

Robot: I'm sorry; I did not hear your response. Could you please repeat that?

Crowd: Go fuck yourself!

Robot: You said you were from "Go Fuck Yourself." Is this correct?

Crowd: Fuck yea!

Robot: You have collectively said, "Yes." I am not familiar with Go Fuck Yourself. The closest location I could find is Bastrop, Texas. Is this the location you mean?

Fortune cookie:

"Your brainstorming leads to a genius bumper sticker: I'd rather be calibrating."

Call it a raw complexity but I sometimes heed to stereotypes. After I checked out and walked to the dining area to eat, I saw the token black guy who works at Whole Foods. You know exactly who I'm talking about. Nice guy, smart and well-spoken ... but every time I see him I think of what it must be like to listen to rap lyrics from his perspective.

It's like a gentrification of rap lyrics and it likely goes something like this:

Actual lyrics: I spend more money than a fat bitch at a McDees."

Translation: My expenditures this fiscal year are of such magnitude they are best expressed as a metaphor involving a corpulent female at a processed food establishment.

Actual lyrics: I smoke fools by busting a cap in 'em/Then I smoke again.

My enemies and narcotics are similarly compressed into a fine powder, which I regularly ingest to achieve intoxication that is akin to Native American warriors eating their enemies.

Actual lyrics: Sippin' on some Syrup ... S-S-S--S-S-ippin on some sizzer

Translation: I'm swilling copious amounts of medicinal and alcoholic adult beverage combined, causing a slippery tongue which fortifies my ability to stutter and enunciate the letter 'Z' in speech.

Fortune cookie wisdom says:

"Remember your dictionary and cough syrup for your next visit with Dr. Dre."

On my way out, I looked at my receipt and concluded that the price had an inverse correlation to the amount of food I bought. I crumpled the receipt and grew intense with a juggernaut level of passive-aggressive energy.

Sometimes, I wonder why I even own a bank account if I never monitor the amount that enters and leaves it. How the hell did I graduate middle school?

In my fit of passive-aggressive thunder, I went back inside, stuck my hands in my pockets and flicked everyone off, in my pockets. I tried to make a lewd gesture in my pockets as I walked by the "$6.99 per pound" sign by the food bar, but there wasn't enough room in my pockets. I then walked outside, balled my fist and promised not to shop there again. Curses to you Whole Foods. Curses!

Fortune cookie nugget:

"You'll regret the anvil of wisdom I've dropped on your head. Only a fool would turn to a cookie for wisdom."

SNAP!