Life Advice Gleaned From My Keys That Are Chillin' In My Locked Car

Points to Remember

Why admit your weaknesses when you can smooth them over with the uneasy realization that at least you didn't lose your keys. There they are. Right there. Right in front of you. Locked in a car while it's raining outside. And all you can do is consider how lucky you are that you did not lose your keys because only idiots lose keys. Disregard those urges to Hulk out and throw punches at the air. There is solace in knowing you don't misplace things.

No matter where you place your wager (on successfully breaking into your car with a soft blend of anger and bitchassness or on convincing yourself that fucking up is fun) things will end up costing you 50 IQ points and $50. I suggest that instead of squandering your wits with worry, you should start in on the salvage, you damn moron.

At least you locked your keys in your car at the gym and not at some rogue porn shop. Just sayin...

When in doubt, dance, do the macarena. You deserve to fall to your lowest point possible.

Call yourself a bitch, bitch.

Check Me Out Broseph!

It’s been a while since I last deposited some money in this little pocket of refried empanada goodness, which can also be considered a blog, depending on the angle you look at it and your appetite.

I can’t promise that this entry is going to be deliciously clever or dripping with one single cogent thought even. In fact, I’m going to just say that there is no destination. It’s going to be a pure and reckless, driving with your knees type of journey. Where to you ask?

I don’t know, but here’s something hollerific to rub your face in and smile.

I plowed through the Internet with a Mack truck like zeal and found dads in short shorts or really hot girls with plungers. But let's not forget the clever fingerbangin' site.

Now that we got that out of the way, it’s safe to say that I simply want to hang out with other men and revel in rugged masculinity today. Send me an e-mail if you’re a hambro and want to arm wrestle or exchange punches in the arm, pop collars, and collectively gel our hair into dangerous spikes, all in one sweeping motion! Yessssss!!!

Douche. Bag. Don’t mind if I doooooo!

Stay tuned. I’m graduating from this bullsh** blog to a real professional Website in the coming days, so prepare for penetrating insight and rigorous scholarship, wisdom and drawn out excuses why it’s OK to eat a banana in public.

Told you. This entry was loosely strung together by the thread of resignation and fleeting thoughts about your mom. Ooooooh she’s so good. MMMMMMpenada good actually.

Birthday Wishes ...

My birthday is this weekend and a dude gets what he wants on his birthday, right? I've never asked for much, but I'm turning a new leaf this year and I'm asking for a little sumpin' sumpin' ... Here's a brief list: ...

1) I want to be told a funny joke by a beautiful woman.
2) Someone should photoshop my face in a Dos Equis "Most Interesting Man in the World" ad.
3) Equestrian. (I don't need to say more than this).
4) Let it rain. I want to wax and milk the day away.
5) Everyone should get excited!

It's going to be a good day.

Open Letter to My Erased Hard Drive

Dear Mac,

I thought I was just buying a simple Macbook whose operative goal was to make me look cool, but you've turned out to be so much more. Your ability to juggle two different applications simultaneously puts you in a league of your own. You reach insurmountable speeds when that technicolor pinwheel spins in a general demise, informing me that the best things in life come to those who wait. You are so hot, and I love it when you sit in my lap and warm my goods like an accomplished lover. Your cunning acumen and reputation culls my mild desires for a long-term companion who I can share all my most secret information with.

We sleep together and the first thing I do is roll over to you and turn you on like you do me, stroke your touchpad, finger your keys. Your wireless convenience allows me to take you everywhere, and where you go, I also follow. Sometimes to the depths of no man's land where people talk with parking lot drawls and have never heard of wi-fi.

Your hard drive makes me whimper, your gigabytes make me swoon. But you said you needed space yesterday in the coffee shop (out of memory and no room) like I was smothering you and you couldn't handle all my needs anymore. I knew this was true when I tried downloading R. Kelly's "Computer Love" and I was denied repeatedly. Out of memory. Incapable of opening up and collecting yet another piece of me. I tried to convince you that it was just a bad day and restarted you, but I quickly learned that your drives were no longer compatible with me because you kept warning me with a prompt that said 'FAILED.'

This broke my heart. So like a fool in love, I went out and bought you that dream RAM you always wanted (4 gigs) and even an external hard drive for moral support, hoping that maybe that would be the answer in giving you the space you needed in our relationship, but you tricked me. You lied to me. You fucked me over when I tried upgrading your operating system to 10.6. You tossed everything we had into the trash without my permission. And now, four years of my life are gone. So much time and energy invested in you. All the pictures we had, music, movies, love letters and spreadsheets. GONE. ALL GONE.

I can't explain the empty feeling of having no data left in our relationship. It's like I don't even know you anymore. I no longer trust your "user friendly" ways. What does that even mean? You freaking whore tart face! Thinking that a relationship counselor would solve our problem was very ambitious of me, especially when the Apple genius tech support told me to get over it and move on because it's impossible to recover data once it's gone.

Initialize me, RAM me, drive me, I don’t give 32 FUCKING bits, I am software at your service. I would do anything to have the data we once had back in our lives. All I wanted to do was make you happy and you screwed me over. I am skeptical of Macs now. But I'll probably get over you with another one in the near future, who will take me to unimaginable places at mind-blowing speeds. I've learned everything and nothing from an erased hard drive. But I will miss you and I will always think fondly of you.

Your helpless user,

JJ

Feng Shui Feeling Limp?

Before you get the sneaky suspicion that I'm becoming some wayward metrosexual, let me preface what I'm about to say by challenging you to the most manly ultimate fight in the history of manly men! {via e-mail}

But first, let me tell you about a dope design firm.

So you want to pimp your palace? Redefine your dull living space? You need some edge in your life? End global warming? Well you need Esther's mega hip help to style and design it for you.

Check out her design firm In Your Space.

If you think I'm wrong, or even slightly fabulous, I will challenge you to a bare-knuckled brawl in the back of a convertible race car, driven by an impossibly hot super model, moving at speeds upwards of 160 mph, on a vast plain in the deserts of West Texas, completing its course on a crazy high ramp that will, shortly after the hot super model chick ejects and rolls to safety, hurl the car and the two of us within it over a cliff and into certain destruction and glory. At the bottom of the canyon, half-dead and mostly on fire, we will claw our way from the smoldering wreckage of the vehicle and begin phase two of the mighty challenge: The dance of mountain lions.

After reading that, I'm allowed to say that I can spot good design, ya heard?

(image source: ffffound)

The Tao of Sarcasm (a variety of topics)

::In an effort to explore the splendors of the lowest form of communication I've skillfully taken the following topics to the stratosphere of sarcastic grandeur: Hot weather, memory foam beds, empty wallets, and cold feet. The literary devices of hyperbole and imagery should enhance your perusal of this highly contemptible and derisive form of blogging, but it could also prove to be a situation of apparently unending awfulness as adult sea lions defecate on your eye balls and make mating calls in your ears::

Memory Foam Beds
So here's the thing with memory foam beds. They don't exactly remember what happened the night before. How do I know this you ask? Well, I'm 5'10, but every night I get into my bed and snuggle up to my girlfriend, there's an impression of Lebron James in my foam mattress bed. I don't like to jump to conclusions, so I postulated that maybe I grow 10 feet in my sleep, or perhaps first impressions really do last and he was the first person to lay on that demo bed in the store. Besides, my girlfriend is a Kobe fan. It's a really comfortable bed, and it's suitable for a King, but why would Lebron be in my bed? I don't like the idea of having to fill size 22 shoes. I don't know how to approach my girlfriend, with tact about this. I bet the wine glass spilled when she was jumping on it (unlike the advertisement suggests) and my memory foam mattress drunk dialed Lebron when my girlfriend left. Yea, this is clearly what happened. Problem solved.

My Tape Player Eats Children
This statement is loosely bound by actual cassette tape ribbon, since it's more accurate to say my tape player eats your face.

I Wish It Was Hot
The mercury climbs to 117 degrees outside and the heat creates a thick blanket of suffocating discomfort that some might consider murderous. Nonsense! My skin begins to mildly sizzle and that's just its way of subtly whispering to me that the stove's on low heat. Turn it up please. I sweat profusely within seconds. My jeans cling to my thighs and I begin generating Olympic size pool rings of sweat under my armpits. I love that! Girls do too. I wish it was hotter though. This is the only condition where I ever feel relief from the mild weather two months out of the year. The hotter the more soothing, duh. It's not hot enough. I want to grimace and melt as I walk to my car. I want to pass out like a bum in his own pool of urine. The feline like sun, ducking and hiding behind the clouds all hours of the day needs to bring it! Such a pussy. It's never hot enough during the summer. Why can't I get heat exhaustion and welcome dehydration more regularly? Is this too much to ask? I hate that my entire summer wardrobe is so Icelandic. I never have the opportunity to wear shorts because it's too frigid! I wonder if people would think I'm weird if I ate ice cream, since it's not even hot outside.

Cold Feet
So I was at a wedding last week and it was in the Arctic circle. I was walking on ice. Sure, you might call it a themed wedding, since no one was wearing shoes on the frozen ground and the ring bearer was a penguin. It was kinda cold, and no doubt, my toes wanted to curl up with a book next to a fire. My feet are happiest when on ice though, like Disney. I just wanna dance! But then this old lady next to me asked when I was getting married. I was bothered by a crippling fear of the dance floor after she posed this question. I felt like all the girls were checking out my feet. The penguins looked like they were having so much fun, spilling and sliding all over the ice though. All I wanted to do was the electric slide, but I was too scared. No more happy feet. I put on some socks I found laying around and everyone scoffed at me, like I was some ultimate party pooper or something. Instantly, my feet were burning and itching. I had acquired athletes foot. Score. Cold to hot in a heartbeat.

Empty Wallets
I can safely say there is nothing more enjoyable in life than reaching in to your pockets, pulling them inside out, and discarding the lint as you shrug your shoulders while realizing the balance of your bank account is equal to that of your 2-year-old niece. The sky's the limit! What are you going to do with all that money? Buy a handful of chicklets? Flick it into a fountain and wish for more? Invest in a postage stamp so you can write a letter to your congressman about the perils of being broke? Or simply ask your niece for some money.

A Caffeine Inspired Memo to Thursday Morning, Courtesy of Devastatin' Dave

I opened my laptop, glazed over my agenda for the day with the similar tenacity of hardened gum glued beneath a table, loosening up at a glacial pace. I yawned, inhaled life and choked on the idea of actually putting forth an effort in being productive.

But then this strange thing happened. I gulped 32 ounces of iced coffee in less than 30 seconds. And my life changed for the better. Here's how it went down ...

Everything went blurry.



And then he spoke to me ...

Devastatin' Dave: Yo Yo Yo JJ! It's 1986, look at your Casio watch because it's about that time to get yo butt in gear. Get yo swagger back! Karate chop yo desk wit yo forehead and get outta robot mode! Don't talk at that library volume either, bitch!

Me: Whoa, Devastatin' Dave. Is it really you?

Devastatin' Dave: Fool, it ain't Mr. T! Stop bein' lazy chump. We gonna put yo slow morning into high mutha' lovin' gear! You ready to get thangs done or what?

Me: No. Sorry ... Dave.

::SLAP TO THE FACE::

Me: Owww! Why'd you just slap me Dave?

Devastatin' Dave: Don't ever call me Dave again. It's Devastatin' Dave. And you just drank enough coffee to energize a Soul Train dummy.

Me: You're right! Now that you mention it. I feel like I can do anything. Build a cake! Improvisational theater! Call my bank to complain about fees! Sharpen 7,000 pencils or learn quantum physics backwards! I'm so excited! Remember that episode of Saved by the Bell where ...

Devastatin' Dave: Yo, chill JJ. You gettin' carried away. We gonna start small. First task I have for you is to act a fool. Get loose. Exercise yo facial muscles and gnaw on yo damn fingers while tapping a pen really fast.



Me: Like this?

::Looks barely human::

Devastatin' Dave: Good. Now I want you to grab the attention of someone near you and spark up a conversation about aardvarks and salary. At the same time tackle yo work tasks like you were an NFL linebacker and think about what ya gonna have for lunch. In the same frame of thought, make a doodle drawing and look up the meaning of life online. One second after you start this, interrupt the one-way conversation about aardvarks and introduce lemurs and ice cream. Proceed to download music while making a phone call. It's called multitasking. Embrace it JJ.

Me: Wow! Look! I'm doing it! I'm being productive!

Devastatin' Dave: ZIP! ZAP! RAP! Got you hooked now fool!

Me: I don't know why I never drank coffee like this before!?!? I wonder where I would be today if I had started drinking coffee earlier? It doesn't matter, I live in the now, now! Let's rap about Trapper Keepers!



Devastatin' Dave: Yo JJ, that thing you do in front of the mirror in your room, when you try and rhyme words ... don't ever do that in public.

Me: Yo Bridget! Got this coffee/I feel like Super Mario/Oops I mean Wario/I like jell-o with my pancakes/Hello, with my handshakes/I'm wearing Jordache jean Jamz so rad you think I'm bad/ Not like Michael Jackson/More like Alf sniffing cat poo-poo. Word. Put that in your trapper keeper, fo life! Yo!

::Coffee causes me to write without thinking::

A Bored Librarian Reviews My Mustache Via Twitter

::A librarian makes observations of my mustache via Twitter. She compares the endeavor to a more spicy day at work::

It's gross and amazing mixed together.

about 30 seconds ago from Web

Up close his mustache looks like two starved mutant leeches mating on his upper lip. Ewww. The mustache explains everything.

about a minute ago from Web

I wish the creepy guy didn't have a mustache. It kinda makes me want to grab life by the handlebars though LOL.

about 2 minutes ago from Web

It's so bad though. I wonder if I'm out of place to kindly ask him to shave it off? He clearly can not grow a manly lip sweater.

about 2.5 minutes ago from Web

I want him. Bad.

about 3 minutes from Web

When people ask what I do at work, I can tell them I help blandly handsome boys grow into men, and fantasize about mustaches. j/k. How can I not like this job?

about 3 minutes ago from Web

The creepy guy just asked me where I can find books on how to groom mustaches. And did the tootsie roll for me!

about 5 minutes ago from Web

He's walking this way. OMG!

about 6 minutes ago from Web

Why is he still there with giant headphones on? Standing and waiting. ???

about 10 minutes ago from Web

So that guy looks totally sketchy hanging outside the women's restroom. He's wearing above-the-knee white shorts and knee high socks. He's waving at me. Creepy.

about 4 hours ago from Web

I think a man sprayed down the stall with cheap cologne to cover up the smell of his crap; it's hard to say which smells worse.

about 5 hours ago from Web

A woman just complained about an awful smell. She said it's ruining her YouTube watching experience.

About 5 hours ago from Web

Turns out that same guy is practicing his Dirty Hairy impersonations out loud, whilst rubbing his nipples.

about 5 hours ago from Web

Woman complained to me that a man wearing white shorts is bothering library patrons

about 5 hours ago from Web

Diana never texts back; apparently she's not impressed with the observation.

about 7 hours ago from Web

Must text Diana that David Hasselhoff is in the heeeeezy.

about 7 hours ago from Web

What do I do? It's a little exciting, I must admit.

about 7 hours from Web

Just called off security because I told them it's nothing to worry about. {I'm a little turned on}.

about 7 hours ago from Web

He totally is! And he's blowing kisses to her in the U.S. history section

about 7 hours ago from Web

OMG! Is that guy sitting on top of the table and making tiger claw motions in the air to her?

about 7 hours ago from Web

A gross guy with a mustache just walked in. He moon walked across the floor and winked at me.

about 8 hours ago

I love how the highlight of my day is reorganizing books and speaking at a low whisper all day.

about 8 hours ago from Web

Ode To My Cell Phone From The Future

Dear 2006 flip phone,

I would like to take this moment to thank you for being so overwhelmingly sleek and trendy while always being at the heart of laughter when you surface from my pocket.

You are a rare gem of cutting edge technology that can only be rivaled by a universal remote, since it serves humanity with distinction. You expanded your jurisdiction to control features that the mind is still incapable of grasping, like texting, taking photos, and constantly searching for a faint signal.

Your sexiness simply astounds me. When I am beginning a conversation and ending one, everyone knows since you make a loud clicking sound and slam shut with the integrity of a brick. Many times I have been with you, in public, proud to show the world the latest and greatest in technology, and people stare in disbelief. I'm pretty sure I am the only person in the world with a phone like you.


You are a smart phone, by the classic definition, not for 3G purposes. Your flashlight application has saved my neck many times in the dark. I still can't believe that you come equipped with a calculator and a two hour battery life!

You bring joy to my conversations. You are timeless. You are even my timepiece. I would wear you on my wrist if it wasn't illegal. (You have not even been released to the public yet). People call me, simply to tell their friends that they had the pleasure of talking to someone with a flip phone, and sure, it hurts my feelings when they call only to do this, but I understand the consequences of being the owner of such an amazing cell phone.

You are the only phone I have ever come in contact with that uses a puppy whimper ring tone when you are set to vibrate. Not because you came in contact with water or anything, but because there's nothing that suggests a subtle alert like a puppy crying.

Zack Morris endorsed you years ago, because he too came in contact with the phone from the future. Blackberries cringe in terror at your very sight and secede to defeat. They simply can not compete with you, flip phone. It is said that when iPhones are in your company, they keel over and die, effectively becoming bricks because your wavelength is overbearing. I will never forget that time I made that universal phone call to the Bulgaria and I carried a conversation with someone in a ruinous apartment, underground and hundreds of miles from a cell tower.

The best thing about you, flip phone from 2006 though, is that when I sit on you, you don't dial dolphin ninjas from outer space. I hate when that happens.

Sincerely,

JJ

Deep Thoughts About the Deep South

After going on a completely spontaneous road trip through Mississippi, it's only fitting that I consider how Christopher Walken's experience might have been had he been there alongside me. It was a trip without purpose or a destination. It made little sense, but a schizophrenic could easily map it all out.

Conversation Along the Way

Christopher Walken: Mississippi feels like the very first conversation I've ever had. The first time I ever had a real conversation with a woman was in college. I had chatted with girls all through high school. I had exchanged some ideas, but never a full conversation. Then I met Heidi and we started chatting on and off, which was really beneficial and detached.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was having my very first conversation. We had quite a few conversations after that, although at first I was insecure about my ability to converse. But then it came naturally to me and I was lasting longer during conversation. I was finally able to satisfy girls' desires to have conversations when I gently stroked serious subject matter with a soft touch. I knew all the right things to talk about to drive a girl crazy. I became a fiend for it. I was enjoying an amazing variety of conversational topics, so I didn't care. And I started conversing with other girls. And then Heidi wished she had never talked to me after that.

Ever since then, it's been short meaningless conversation after the other. And that's what Mississippi is like. A conversation with a beautiful woman who wants you to commit and stay. Don't just drive through. I want to continue this conversation JJ.

Me: Wow. That's quite the analogy. By conversation you're referring to something else, right?

Christopher Walken: No. What else would I possibly be referring to? So anyways, did you know that the question mark is originally from an Egyptian hieroglyph that represents a cat walking away? It's the tail, you know. And that symbol means — well, whatever it is when they're ignoring you. You completely ignored me during our conversation.

Me: Sorry. I was listening, but just didn't catch what you were saying.

Bubble Gum and Fried Chicken

Christopher Walken: You know, I love Mississippi. The people are nice. And they chew bubble gum religiously. I respect that. It means they have something to chew on. It also means they are not sinister and this is because of the gum. I have perfected the art of the bad guy in film and I have never entertained chewing bubble gum because it would devastate any chance I had making you crap your pants in terror.

Me: You always chew gum though.

Christopher Walken: Yes, but are you attempting to make a valid point?

Me: Nope.

Christopher Walken: And this fried chicken thing. I feel if Mark Twain were alive, he'd write a memoir about how overrated it is, since everything in the south is fried. I could tap-dance with any plate of food in the south. But don' tell me something is fact. I take an active disinterest in facts. Chicken Fried Steak is actually beef. This is not a fact. It really depends on how you say it, whether comically, tragically, and in every conceivable ethnic accent. I am terribly tempted to club a baby seal and deep fry it.

Bible Belt and Pants

Christopher Walken: I like suspenders. But being in the bible belt here in the south makes me feel like letting loose and letting my trousers hang down to my ankles.

Me: Why are you taking your pants off in the car?

Christopher Walken: Son, just trust the process. It's not healthy to always wear a belt. Or question your elders for that matter. Sometimes you have to just let loose. Even the Bible belt region. Unbutton the top button, unzip your pants. Have fun. Ahh! Much better. This is what I love about the south.

Me: Can you put your pants back on?

::Christopher Walken blankly stares at me in response to my request, without the slightest hesitation, and he fixes his gaze at me in disgust. He continues this for the next three hours without flinching or looking away::

Likely Responses To Unlikely Questions

::The following are scenarios that are loosely based on fact::

Infamous Excuses

Question:"Hey, JJ, you didn't come out yesterday. It was fun. What were you doing instead? Watching reruns of 90210?"

Answer:Yes, actually. I was. I was also filing my finger nails, eating Luna bars, writing in my journal, counting calories, scheduling months in advance, shopping for tampons online, and sewing an elaborate quilt adorned with the face of Luke Perry.

Bad Impersonations

A Doctor: Snap! You may have developed skin cancer.

Me: You want to talk to the Macho Man about his skin? Brother, you want to tell the Macho Man that the years of tanning and oiling his body so that each muscle would glisten under the arena light has made him an excellent candidate for skin cancer? The Macho Man has discovered the cure for cancer, and it is being 100 percent macho all the time. And SNAP INTO A SLIM JIM! OH-YEAH!

I Swear That Was You

Question: Were you on the back seat of another man's motorcycle the other day? I know it was you JJ.

Answer: Impossible. Unless there are three dudes on a motorbike, or it's a pink scooter with little room for dignity, then it likely wasn't me. Oh - are you sure it wasn't me riding a tandem bike with one of my dudebros? That's simply how hambros roll, brah!

Making A Statement As A Sandwich Artist

Question: Oh - I see. So you're like a starving artist now?

Me: Negative amigo. First of all I work in Subway. Second, this work of mine is called Sunset, though any sense of peacefulness that it conveys is ironic. I think I’ve made it obvious that the rows of roast beef are a satirical comment. The splash of honey mustard between the lettuce and meats explores that middle ground where cosmic destiny and human will collide. I’ve been trying to push myself with new textures and colors. I love the way the meat has a sort of iridescence that dances across its surface like the dusk-red sun atop the stippled sea.

O.C.D. On The Road

Beautiful Girl: It's so fun riding with you in your car JJ!

Me: Get your dirty paws and feet off my dashboard you damn ape or get out of my car.

Being That Guy

Question: Yo, JJ, Why you illin' B?

Me: I feel fine. My temperature is at a healthy 98.6 degrees and I exercise regularly, thank you very much. I suspect your discomfort with me stems from the fact that I am the only white guy in your rap group. Geez K-Pain, relax. Care to play hop-scotch?

Who You Gonna Call

Question: JJ, so who are you gonna drunk dial?

Me: Church. I'm going to drunk dial a church. And I'll ask if they have any peanut butter chicken with mustard bean pie. Do you think nuns answer? I think nuns secretly operate 1-900 numbers. This is the best idea I've ever had!

Washing Away The Guilt

Question: Dude, is that David Hasselhoff over there?

Me: It is. This is the happiest moment of my life. I'm going in closer to touch him.

::I'm taking a massively mini vacation to the deep south, but I'll try to update this blog on the road::

Anything Less Would Be Uncivilized

I yawn at the prospect of gracing celebrities with my presence. But at times, I look to the gentle authority of social convention, consideration for others, and simple good manners.

That's why I chose to honor mega filmmaker, Richard Linklater's request to visit my house Monday. Why did he want to come you ask? Fine question. He may or may not be interested in passing scores of money from his lucrative account, into mine. I wish I had a more direct answer for you, but I do not.



During his brief, yet time well-spent stay, we discussed business. I do not like talking business, especially with those who have agendas to turn my living space into a giant movie production. But his vernacular was well-seasoned, as if he had made such proposals before.

And then he made his way to my DVD collection, (two of which were films he directed; Dazed and Confused and Slacker). He then followed with a series of comments pertaining to my refined taste in film. All of which were flanked by the fact I knew who he was, and he was flattered. I then invited him to compliment my taste in film, art, and photography.

"Yes, only the best," I said. "Those photos. I took them."

He was so impressed that this information warranted no response, and he paid little attention as the subject matter changed. He became more interested in what I do in life.

Richard Linklater: So JJ, what do you do?

::His production manager interrupts to say he's seen me on TV at News 8.

Me: Yes. He speaks the truth. But anyways ... I used to make a fool of myself on TV. Nothing to write home about.

Richard Linkalter: Interesting.

And I am impressed with my ability to accompany a celebrity and not try to steal their thunder when taking a photograph. Because I have a bad habit of doing so. The picture below is Quentin Tarantino, and note how I'm informing him to look at the camera, as if he's never come across a camera before and was ill-informed on how to react.

Q&A with the Least Interesting Man in the World

::In the spirit of fairness, the Most Interesting Man in the World sits down with the Los Angeles Lakers forward Pao Gasol for a brief Q&A about being disturbingly lame::



The Most Interesting Man: Are you allowed to carry credit cards, Pao?

The Least Interesting Man: Yes, because my personality is not a fraction as magnetic as yours is.

The Most Interesting Man: My friend, your beard. It intrigues me, not in a good way either. What have you achieved with your beard?

The Least Interesting Man: Um, I once caught Kobe's sweat with it when I was following up a rebound.

The Most Interesting Man: When you're not rollerblading, what are you doing with your life?

The Least Interesting Man: Probably studying other, more interesting men, like Mutombo and Pauly Shore.

Most Interesting Man: You disgrace me. You and your Los Angeles Lakers team. I can not continue this interview with you. You're equipped with the intellect of a little pancake. You're a mistake of evolution. Watching you makes my eyes go blind with mustard.

Least Interesting Man: I'm sorry. I am an accurate basketball player though.

Most Interesting Man: What does that even mean? Are you a blow dart expert? For accuracy, there is no better measure. Gifted operation of a blow dart can knock out a raging sumo wrestler charging you or ever so slightly blow-dry the matted hair of a waterlogged baby bird.

Least Interesting Man: Slap me in the face. I would be honored and I will have something to tell my grandchildren.



Most Interesting Man: Gladly. I look forward to watching your team suffer from the more manly team in red.

Advice From A Person Who Minored in Psychology

::The following counsel is not meant to substitute for professional therapy, the endorphin surge of a long run, prescription drugs, hot bubble baths, yoga, or rolling your car windows up and singing sad love songs::

Dear JJ,

I am in my mid twenties and I am experiencing the quarter-life crisis. I am not the adventurous type, but lately all I want to do is run naked across the city, grow a beard and write a lengthy how-to novel about dance moves for every occasion in life. Any sage advice?

-- Derek in Piedmont

Dear Derek,

It sounds as if you have gone completely existentially limp and the only things that interest you now are activities that swallow any level of maturity you may heave achieved. Is it your intent to recklessly embarrass anyone in your company? Good for you if so.

Your desire to grow a beard is not unlike any other man, especially if during your tenure in growing it you detach yourself from the tether of life's responsibilities and spend all your time watching Kung Fu: The Legend Continues.

Now, Derek, if anyone is going to successfully pen a book about specific dance moves for every occasion in life, it's going to be me, not you, so you can put that puppy to rest. Either way, here are some broad thoughts: Implement a trial and error strategy for finding the most chesty, uninhibited opportunities to expose your most uncalled for desires and run with it. I completely endorse the activity of running in the nude.



Dear JJ,

I just bought a pair of roller blades and I'm not sure what to do now. I mean, I LOVE rollerblading, but how do I tell my parents? I just wanna roller blade and maybe dance afterwards. Help me JJ.

Sincerely,
--Strawberry Swirls

Dear Strawberry Swirls,

Telling your parents that you are gay is never easy. But the first step is realizing it. I suggest just taking notes from a previous client I've helped.



Dear JJ,

What's in my stomach right now?

Sincerely,
--Hungry Hungry Hippo

Dear Hungry Hungry Hippo,

Breath mints and not a damned thing else. I know this because your stomach and I just happen to have a mutual friend. How else would I know this information? This is only an advice column, but I hear your stomach is feeling empty and is unsatisfied with work lately. Too much gastrointestinal buildup can lead to unneeded stress. My unsolicited advice to your stomach is to listen to it, build a deeper relationship with it and never ignore it when it's reaching out to you.



Dear JJ,

I am only happy when I eat. What does this mean?

Sincerely,
--When I walk my thighs look like two seals clapping

Dear When I walk my thighs look like two seals clapping,

I find your name humorous, but please don't think that I'm laughing at your expense. I suggest you look at yourself in the mirror and channel a resolve that is required when eating at a buffet and become reacquainted with that smile that surfaces at the sight of red velvet cake. Embrace your appetite, and welcome the inevitability in becoming morbidly obese. True happiness is found in food.

Dear JJ,

All I want to do is return to the '80s but I'm told there's no reason to go back. Can you shed some light on time traveling?

Respectfully,
--Slap Bracelets Rule!

Dear Slap Bracelets Rule,

It's no surprise that the '80s were spectacular years but I will not validate this inquiry with a response.

Dear JJ,

I am trying to avoid old age at all costs. Any suggestions?

Tom in Los Angeles

Dear Tom,

I am not a big fan of stating the obvious, but plastic surgery is a fine alternative to letting gravity take hold of your face. May I suggest you get an eye lift. Otherwise, if you do not have this procedure done, you will be condemned to the unspeakable state of looking at your age in the mirror every morning.

Dear JJ,

I love bananas, but why is it impossible for me to eat them when I'm in a public place?

-- Fruitless in Seattle

Dear Fruitless,

I suspect your fear of consuming bananas in public areas is a deep rooted insecurity that I am not qualified to answer. Logic would suggest that you consult with someone with a degree in culinary arts.

When Clammy Hands Eff My Life Up

::The following is a brief recap of the most epic moments in my life that ended terribly at the perils of my clammy hands surfacing at the most inopportune time, dampening my memory of the experience with failure and grief::

My 7th Grade Dance
I was 13-years-old and armpit hair was vaguely evident. My voice cracked Da Vinci codes and I was terrified of girls. My shy and quirky demeanor made the faintest attempt at gaining confidence a feeble cause. But something inside of me (testosterone?) told me to let them descend and become a man. So I approached the most unattainable girl in my grade who had the least bit of working knowledge of my very existence. I walked up to her, with my hands in my pockets (which were actually reservoirs of watery mayhem) and asked, "wanna dance?" "OK," she said. I extended my hand and she grabbed it, but it slid out of her grasp like a fish out of water. She winced in disgust and never looked back. The end. This single event would later lead to me taking up oil panting hand art as therapy.

The Job Interview Handshake I was sitting in a large advertisement firm several years ago during the final round of my job interviews. I had nailed all three meetings, and articulately explained my experience and skills while outlining heroic work stories and life experiences that were laced with charm and humor. The only thing that stood between me and employment was the handshake, which is anything but a perfunctory gesture. I slimed the hiring manager with my sweaty palms, effectively defining myself poorly. It was the worst handshake ever, lacking key components: a swift, elegant movement toward the waiting hand, wise use of the eyes, grip strength, even the rhythm of the shake was off. And it was one of those glued handshakes that exceeded four seconds. I watched his smile instantly become terror when our palms collided and I knew it was over. Thank you clammy hands!

Being the Hero

I simply couldn't hold on. She slipped because of my clammy hands. I would be a hero, and a real man if I just held on to her.

When I Was Asked to Win the Game

The game was tied. There were two seconds left on the clock. I was called off the bench. All we needed to do was score and we win and I would be carried off the court and probably become the first freshman prom king ever. My teammate passed me the ball. I was wide open, but the ball slipped right through my fingers and into the hand of a teammate, who was behind me. He caught the ball, shot and scored. I briefly considered stealing the ball from my own teammate. To this day, I am certain that had my hands been dry, and I caught the ball, I would be playing semi-pro ball in the Ukraine. I was relegated to riding the pine and preparing Gaterade for everyone thereafter, sometimes dying my hands red in process.

Ending My Hand Modeling Career

I had it all. I was on top of the world. Making good money, and being recognized as the premiere authority in truly beautiful and dainty hands. I kept the secret hidden, until I was confronted by jealous fat hands, which were more like chubby paws. They released viral video of me wiping my hands on my pants at a rampant rate. During a photo shoot, my hyperhydrosis sweaty palm condition accelerated at such a rate that it began to rain during my audition for jazz fingers. It was grotesquely embarrassing and tragic. To this day, my hands are now known as slip 'n slides with zero marketing ability. The embarrassment keeps them in my front jean pockets most of the time now.

That Time We Took That Artsy Photograph In theory it was genius. Take a picture with everyone's hands bearing a pile of colorful pastel chalk powder. It was then that I realized my clammy hands do not welcome lilac colored chalk powder, since it created the volcanic chemical reaction of mixing baking soda and vinegar. A pungent odor killed the collaborative spirit of the group, prompting everyone to isolate, and shun me, while turning my hands into the subject of an unbelievable photo opportunity. While trying to wash off the chalk, I realized my sweaty palms might be hazardous, so I sheathed them in HAZMAT gloves for several months, avoiding direct sunlight and cameras.

Romantically Reading Palms

I had reached the summit of my romantic life. I was ringing door bells and holding single roses in my mouth, reciting obscure lines in classical French literature, and doing all the little things, like not describing wine as "alcoholy" or "wine-a-licious." But I crossed the line when I decided to go to have a palm reader analyze my palms and read into my future.

Palm Reader: Crisco shortening and Dove Soap will make an unthinkable business merger and you will lead the way with your cosmically impossible clams for hands. I can't guarantee love is in your future. You will get slapped in the face by sweaty gym socks. She will leave you for another man with dry, callous hands.

::she hands me a tissue to dry hands::

This blog is supported by the guarantee that I no longer have clammy hands. I promise.

The Odyssey of Breakfast: A Pitchfork Review

::Three blogs in just as many days is unheard of, I know. But I'm kinda on a roll (yes, I am actually butter) so I might as well keep it going::

Best New Albums
Pretentious reviews of this week's new album releases pertaining to JJ's breakfast experience at a coffee shop. Since he is alone, and in a coffee shop, he can safely afford to make hyper critical observations that claim unjustified merit.


Produce Aisle Vegetables
Nothing to Write Home About
[Supermarket Records;2009]





Chewing on the Produce Aisle Vegetables latest release is anything but fresh. It's a lot like trashy but savvy brats, where you just want to hit it, quit it, and then spit on it. The limp celery in my omelet doesn't quite mesh well with the rotten tomatoes. It's reminiscent of the empty sonic sound associated with sticking your index finger in your cheek and making that hollow, unsatisfying, childish 'ploop' sound. A disappointing attempt at conceptualizing the marvelous morning by way of a not-so-fresh omelet. Opening track, "Spinach plus artichoke" is ultimately as trifling as refrigerating after opening is essential.


The Sick Thrills
Roller Coasters Are Good Places To Be
[Up and Down Records;2009]




On the title track, of the Sick Thrills' third album, we get a glimpse of true formless songwriting that's ragged, raw and downright thrilling. Themes as bold as French roast, people watching, spilling muffin crumbs on your pants and searching for vacant power outlets are fierce. The album makes sitting in a coffee shop seem energized, whimsical and painstakingly charming. The ups and downs of melancholy and isolated mayhem come alive in a textured homage to flipping your stomach inside-out and vomiting when listening to the "quiet mumble of people chattering" and "yoga moms come here to blog." Sitting with your laptop open becomes exciting, and the Sick Thrills highlight a deft percussion when patrons croon with baristas about the joys of caffeine, which take you to limitless realms of conversation and work productivity.


Gourmet Coffee Snot
The Poetic Sound of Coffee Dripping
[Half & Half Records;2009]





The Poetic Sound of Coffee Dripping is an unheralded work of pompous, appalling and inhumanely possible craftsmanship that lacks craft. Imagine empty notebooks sitting next to uninviting pens, patrons sitting cross-legged, with unlit cigarettes dangling from lips while holding books that never get read and that's not unlike Gourmet Coffee Snot. The album grows massively unqualified and tragic with incredibly nonchalant tracks that lack cogent melody like "Bike-Sexuals, mustaches and neck tattoos." Your skinny pants dreams, ironic T-shirt acceptance and inner 'litster' (hipster + literature nerd) is never really questioned in their latest album. They simply go with the trend. Not cool.


The Random Electric Shuffles
On Repeat
[Heavy Rotation Records;2009]





The Random Electric Shuffles release their latest compilation of music and progress from one song to the next with deft abandon. The term 'apples and oranges' is redefined in this record as Brittney Spears follows Grizzly Bear, who precedes that "I like to MOVE-IT-MOVE-IT!" song in complete incoherency. The order and arrangement of songs will suck the life from you. Comparing hyenas to uranium is the new 'apples and oranges' since apples and oranges are too similar for this dangerously unbalanced album. To make this hellish experience even worse, some tracks are disturbingly played again, and again.


Reading Lazy Rainbows
Taking Care of Business
[Don't Procrastinate for Me Argentina Records;2009]




Moving at a glacial pace when studying, or getting work done in a coffee shop is at the heart of the latest concept album by Reading Lazy Rainbows. Staring at tasks and responsibilities with a crushing indifference becomes paramount, but the sound is too similar to trite Chinese fortune cookies and proverbs. The songs run loops of unmotivated, rickety choruses that run off-beat with knotty-linguistics about Gchat. In the spirit of procrastination, this album was long delayed but I wish it was never created, especially after wasting my morning. The lone highlight of the album is the song "Focus You ADD bastard," belting lyrics like, I text, chat, and surf the Web/I might as well have never left my bed. The album is slightly less mild than the yawn inducing, sloth subject matter itself.


The Chairs
Sucky Posture
[My Neck, My Back Records;2009]





Fussily polished post modern rockers get too fancy and create a disastrous mess that's painful to the ears and the back. There's nothing fans of The Chairs can do but hope that the Swedish IKEA knockoffs disband and regroup after studying the principles of Feng Shui more earnestly. Form sadly shadows function in My Neck, My Back and the music mostly lies limp form the beginning. That tingly, numbing sensation you get in your butt is never a good one. This record is as uncomfortable as it is horrible.


Driving Hard Bargains
The Cost of Living Fast
[Soul For Sale Records;2009]




Forgoing the flimsy sound of their typical catchy loops rife with cash register *cha-chings* and baller bling-bling subject matter, Driving Hard Bargains embraces a new sound that's eerily similar to that of thumbing through wads of cash. It's experimental freak-folk that falls flat on its face, however it's a cheap way to pass the time and grab a reasonably priced bite to eat. But then again, so is McDonalds. Driving Hard Bargains should stick to what they know: down south booty bumping music.

We'll Make You Famous
Forget What You Heard
[Word of Mouth Records;2009]




This follow up to their 2006 debut is packed with thick and gauzy guitars, manic synths and unbelievable buzz. Experiencing this coffee shop is an enhancing trip full of depth and otherworldly, furious instrumental passages that beckons fans of all interests. Tracks like "I Told You It Was Good" shine like malevolent moonlight. We'll Make You Famous finally lives up to their hype, and makes music that does the impossible: loudly exceeds their reputation. It's best to listen to Forget What You Heard with headphones, since you will be forming your own opinion of the coffee shop.