Guide to Triumph: The Lost Edition

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Be Abrupt! Live A Little!

I enjoy beginning blogs the very same way I end them: abruptly.

Therefore, it should come as no surprise when I say my dating life has been pretty damn dry lately. Like a tandori lightning blast of tofu-chipotle-mint flavored chorizoless rancid battery acid cake.

That's actually too much taste and shitty flavor in the aforementioned ridiculous description, which is not off the mark.

There's a vague interest I have in acting before thinking, and making statements that blanket and shroud the expected. That said, I digress ... a lottle.

I clearly work with the premonition of leaving spaces blank and acting out of left field but there's some method to today's blog about the ladies and escaping them ...

What the hell could he possibly be talking about??

It's a facile exercise in lampooning every laughable cliche possible at the very mention of my love life right now, which is non-existent. But I like it that way, within reason of course.

Wow, I just revealed a dope-less moment about myself in this blog!! Yes, I'm more bold than an indecent proposal forwarded to your grandma via my iPhone. (She'll never get it anyways, so chill).

Snap!? Your mother's mom whets the appetite. If this blog were a food product it would likely be a dope ass burger. Werd.



Gotta love how I aimlessly try to work in visuals with the blogging. This awesome video by Fujiya & Miyagi echos my efforts. Fujiya and Miyagi - Knickerbocker


But since there's nothing electric (more like erratic) happening in that department (girls, not burgers), I should leave that aggressive blend of fact and fiction to debate. I won't though. Why has it been so lackluster you ask?

A truly satisfactory answer demands equal measures of hard science and hard liquor, but put simply, it's either my ability to suppress yawns has diminished or I'm more concerned with being as unrestrained as the wind. But I'm still truly enjoying the luxury of being single, no interpretation is needed for that. Dating is fun for now.

But in keeping melody with abrupt subject matter, you know you're dope if you are in the midst of planning a trip to the bowels of outer space and you don't even have to vomit profusely during space training or even leave Texas for that matter to get there.

I experience the most overwhelmingly peculiar things, which merits me saying I am awesome, more times than you care to register.

Not because I feel I have suffered unrequited recognition or anything, but because it's a genuine goal of mine to keep everyone (and myself) on their toes. It also helps that I can make a discussion about toilet paper taped to the business end of your shoe seem engaging.

"Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well." -- Ernest Hemingway

Dog shit on the pavement is strikingly similar to writing about boring things like how I feel or what what I will eat or listen to today. You want to avoid stepping in that heaping, smelly pile of feces at all costs. Instead, I do stupid (dope?) things for the sake of experience.

And that, my friend, is why I enjoy bizarre musings. Like living in a real leper colony in Hawaii, jogging in Israel with soldiers, hiking up the grand canyon to sit on a calcified stoop to pray to the New Mexcio Zim Gods, as I plead for a new pair of running moccasins.

So with a nothing-to-write-home-about love life, coupled with a ravenous hunger to absorb some quirky punches to the solar plexus of life, I've decided to take a little escape. A vacation, if you will. Something to get the bloodflow hot and heavy again.

There are many things people do to escape. Some get on a bike. Getting a new job is popular, or altering your routine in life. Others massage apathy into their meanderings and some bury themselves in sand and let beach crabs cramp their style. Some guys will retreat to a female's bosom.

I prefer to do things on my own accord, by myself, and enjoying every step of the way. Hopefully, I'll have enough money. And if you were wondering what the sound of pennies being thrown sounds like, listen to this dope sound.

The Cool Kids -- "Pennies" MP3

I'll be celebrating the day I jumped out of my mother's womb next month (I think the world will be honoring this day too by simultaneously making the most obscene and grotesque face at noon ... sort of like a personal flash mob, but in my name).

So I'm headed to Marfa, TX to honor that day.



Marfa is synonymous with "what the fuck's there?" Answer: Nothing. But therein lies the beauty. Art in open space, mingling with small town locals, watching the Marfa lights and soaking up the western frontier.

Before you continue reading, to gauge my mindset about Marfa, listen to this song. It explains why I'm going I think. It's a little bit of a somber, bombed-out hippie vibe with acoustics that gently strum your reclining thoughts into an unkown world. Word.Fleet Foxes -- "Blue Ridge Mountains" MP3

To gird my oversized ego is not a goal in going there. I will not be heading there to court local country bumpkin girls, though of course, I'm never opposed to it. It's more of an escape, remember? An escape to somewhere completely different. In the morally uncomplicated landscape of the fraternal picture, it's bros before hos, of course. Some friends will likely meet me there.

Once this trip is over my summer list of accomplishments will look like a heavyweight marshmellow sex stud with a swirling mustache in bed. And then ACL will cap it all off!

It will be sublimely silly and I'll never win points for tidiness in going to a destination with a purpose and goal, and I would never have it any other way.

ROAD TRIP! All you really have to do ... just do shit out of the blue, abruptly. !!!

Absurdity: The 'Huh?' Edition

It's time to turn up the volume and submit recklessly ridiculous thoughts that I'm pushing and pulling in my head right now. I'm gonna spill them like jars of spoiled milk that will make you gag and cry.

Of course, for the purpose of preserving the tacit agreement I entered when launching this blog, which is to leave you quibbling in jocular inquiry. And it can only be quelled by fostering a compromising fashion sense that embraces the dampened crotch look.

Yes, making you urinate on yourself while orbiting cosmic, out-of-this-world thought that's still down-to-earth is a short-sighted goal of mine. I also aim to bounce thoughts and ideas from my head, and hazardously ricochet them off your noggin like explosive literary devices tend to do.

Thus I bring you the following streaks of dim brilliance that hail from the bastion of low-brow intellect. That loosely translates to mean the things you are about to read will easily satisfy all drunken conversation requirements and will go down easy and pleasantly, like a Fiber One flush. BOOYA Bee-yatch!

I will start by posing the simple question: Have you seen my beeper?
I seem to have misplaced it and I can't find it anywhere. I've retraced my steps, jogged through my memory and I'm blanked by its disappearance. I even took a day trip to the '90s and it bothered me that I was the only one without one. I checked my belt loop, the visor on my car and even called the neighborhood drug dealer to see if he had snatched it from me. That beeper is responsible for 99% of the attention I receive from girls because it beckons them to partake in my decadent lifestyle of luxury. All they wanted to ever do was watch me page people, and now it's gone.

Being beeper-less prompted me to downgrade my taste and style for the finer things in life. Consider it a learning lesson for me. I know it's crazy, going a day without a beeper, but so is eating only vegetables, grains and fruits all day.

I recently forced myself to acquire a taste for vegetarian food. It's part of an attempt at micromanaging my own palatability because my sense of taste (and style for that matter) is so impeccable that I felt it necessary to dilute it. It's only fair to others. Plus, I wanted to see what it feels like to be a foolish, dainty, estrogen fueled dumbass. So I invited some vegan hikers with me to Meatball Mountain and I teased them with tenderloins and pig's feet. They cracked like the spine of a book they were carrying called 'Smart & Healthy Eating' which has obviously never been opened. Forcing yourself to believe a vegetarian diet is the right thing is gayer than a collective of wizards poofing fashion trends.

*These disorganized thoughts are appearing in a mild stream of conscious-like manner, with very little rhyme or reason ... but are certain to combat the mundane backlash that you likely become acquainted with when not perusing through a blog penned by yours truly.*

Speaking of awesome, peep this video by the Octopus Project. It's chaotic, colorful and random.


As an avid culture consumer, who's a generally vague and mysteriously intriguing collector of all things eclectic, I have virtually no allegiance to one particular thing. I tend to avoid things that suck, flock to live music shows, and engage in narrative sprawl in the form of writing that is highly recommended for anyone struggling with illiteracy ... but I have a newfangled interest in the laughably schematic inspirational tract through something called 'planning ahead.'

Shit, I can't even fool myself into thinking that's faithful in fact, since it's more fiction than Super Mario stopping by your crib to shower you with growing shrooms and share with you all the secrets to warping. But I was told if I want to make a habit of something, to do it repeatedly for 21 days. WE SHALL SEE.

What? You just wanna dance you say?

Here's White Denim's latest which was released in the UK, I believe. It's a polaroid shaker. Makes you just wanna do the crazy white boy/no rhythm dance. Word!

White Denim -- "Shake Shake Shake" MP3


Here's a nice little track from Grizzly Bear. Listen carefully, because the keyboards are actually a tune from Snoop Dogg. Either way, the song stabs you with infectious hooks and vocals.

Grizzly Bear -- "Two Weeks" MP3

So, getting back to some thoughts ... I'm generally a fan of flying by the seat of my pants, so it made my day yesterday when I learned that I am no longer homeless. Yes, I was couch surfing for two days. Thank God, because I was really close to moving to a house in the drug-infested, quasi-gentrified hipster oasis area in East Austin. Although, who could decline an offer that promises you'll live like a pimp with a renovated John in the bathroom?

Here are some unfortunate 'That's What She Said' precursors in casual sports that I'm waiting to use:

Tennis: "There's absolutely no way that's in."
Foosball: "Spinning the little man is illegal."
Basketball: "Give it to me down low."
Football: "He really hit it hard and worked the clock like a champ."
Sudoku: "Heck yea! I understand how it works!"

Because who hasn't talked to their stove?

I absolutely hate Kashi's cereal called "Good Friends" ... It tastes like a sour relationship, where roughage is abundant. I propose a swift and orderly name change to from Good Friends to Strictly Platonic O's.

I'm ill from the disdain that's collecting in a pool of piss from the lack of mustache growth on my upper lip. It is really annoying. Why are you so wack and fruitless o-harbinger of fuzzy shame? Among my peeves are big, conceited bodies of water, especially Lake Superior, snooty people, the blinking numbers on alarm clocks, passive aggressive wind when I'm pissing into it, and my lack thereof 'stache.

So yes, it's safe to say I have deftly jotted dope subject matter at a stroke. You're welcome to escape your workday any time aboard the tenacious pterodactyl that is my dope ass blog.

Thanks for comin' out! And please, fellas, put a stop to the effeminate way you stick your pinkie out when downing a Schlitz.

I will enter blogs more consistently, I promise.

Open Letter to Party in My Pants

Dear Party in My Pants,

I would be remiss if I didn't take the time to thank you, pants, for being such a gracious host the other night to the swelling throng of people who showed up to my theme party appropriately dubbed, 'In-Control Party: the Summer Edition.'

It was a festival of easy riding, non-debauchery, completely void of excitement, noise or disturbances typically associated with its counterpart parties: 'Outta Control.'

Perhaps it was the DJ? The tranquil sound of ocean waves crashing shorelines with the clamor of humpback whale samples crooning like some mysterious Enya remix certainly got the party crunk. I mean there was little traffic coming through and not much going on, which makes perfect sense for an 'In Control' party.

But then word got out that my party would be holding an impromptu Yoga class and the tables turned. Maybe it was the intense concentration of soy products, hemp, gluten free bread and organic free range thought that got it poppin', because people piled in. Breaking ice was effortless, since it was hot as balls.

Attendees particularly enjoyed the boom-boom room that was completely vacant, dark and left to brainstorm, meditate and pontificate about transcendental things that most people at parties tend to do. Oh - snap, party-goers were so bent out of shape from the warm-up poetry jam session and sleeping dog poses that they felt compelled to get acquainted with their pillows periodically through the night. That's crazy! It was insane, which loosely translates to mean it was completely serene and unruffled by the winds of chaos due to the pure lack of energy and donkey kicking fun.

It could be said that it was getting out of hand (out of control) once it became common knowledge that my pants were featuring five-pockets of fun in the form of lent and old receipts. Hell yes. But we were no longer adhering to my 'In Control' theme, sadly.

Once again, pants, thanks for being so tight around the buttocks, because that made it not only a well-defined party, but an exclusive one that had me turning people away because there was no room.

People were trying to even sneak in because they wanted to take part in mundane activities like stretching, breathing and talking at a library volume. But pants, you were always a step ahead and were tight rolled at the hems to prevent any rogue party-crashers from nearby pants parties from entering.

If it weren't for you pants, I'd be without pants and shit out of luck when it comes to throwing awesome epic parties. Forget basements, music venues, hotels or pools ... throwing parties in your pants is where it's at!

Sincerely,

-- Acid Washed Mayhem

p.s. I'm never taking you off and my cool faded Smarty Pants might get jealous. But those pants don't throw good parties.

The Art of Wasting Time

It's Monday, and that means you're likely miffed at the prospect of ending your weekend and emptily oozing into your workweek with the fluidity of toothpaste remnants being forced and squeezed out.

It's OK, I've got you covered, Brah!

If you're anything like me (which you're not ... unless your name is thrown around social circles with excessive joy) then you're likely taking pleasure in the fine art of wasting time.

Procrastination is a lot like magic. Not the lame type of magic where David Blane announces that he's locking himself in some Ivy League business school for four years and will not leave until he's satisfied all degree requirements for graduation but the kind that mysteriously makes time vanish with no trace.

So prepare to slap yourself with a disappointing line of inquiry that begs the question, 'what happened to the last five minutes of my life?' I will know I was wildly successful at that point.

In Bruce Lee like fashion, Enter the Dragon of awesome snap-kicking procrastination. Enjoy, young-grasshopper-martial-art-time-wasters.

Before my time here at News 8 expires, I will sneak into the girl's bathroom to write a brief ode to squatting and pushup bras and even include my phone number on the bathroom stalls. I don't suggest doing this unless you are a highly dope individual who will not be deterred if girls walk by you and scoff like you're running a seminar on jock itch, but the next best thing is opening the door and flicking the light switch off while people are using it.

That got me through 1 minute of my morning.

I then arrived at my desk and attempted to replicate the cadence of the vulgar melody associated with gaseous emissions. People may refer to this commonly known act of wasting time as "farting around."

In order to satiate my need for guffaws, I grabbed a clip from Flight of the Conchords and laughed out loud. If you fail to chuckle when watching this, scientific evidence points to psychologically disturbing facts that you are attracted to the same sex.



That was an additional two minutes.

Immediately thereafter, I noticed at my desk were many photos of my brooding mug posted EVERYWHERE! placards and mini pics of me were taped to my phone, monitor, headphones, beneath the mouse, over the face of Ms. July on my calendar of burly women firefighters of Austin. It was absurd and sickening.

Some people snagged some pictures of me off a major news site (the photo to the right was not it, but it's on the site too ... sucks being so dope).

They asked me why I was being seen everywhere in Austin. If we consider ubiquitously landing myself in ridiculous situations, then yes, I am a formidable figure in that regard. But more or less, it simply involves strategic social presentation and a knack for being the butt of jokes. (I secretly printed the hordes of pictures myself and posted them around the newsroom to seem semi-important). ha, Yea right ... give me some credit please.

***Please, do not be mislead in thinking I'm not in any way shape or form anything short of devastatingly lame after posting my picture (seen above) to drill a point. No one has a greater level of self-deprecation than I, so I cordially invite everyone to screen print a pastel colored T-shirt that says "Douchebag," urinate on it, and include one of those immature little Valentine cards circa the 5th grade that says "you're cool ... NOT!" and send it to me, please.***

My mind wanders all the time. Even if you are absolutely convinced that you own 100 percent of my undivided attention, I am likely thinking about how non-threatening a bear riding a unicycle and wearing a tutu really seems. But in spirit of general attentiveness, I just completed my first work task this morning. I found some new music to sink my teeth into.

Here's a video Tokyo Police Club's new video from their latest album Elephant Shell. I like this video because it's not everyday you see some indie rock kids playing inside an antique store with lights and lamps everywhere.


Graves - Tokyo Police Club

I absolutely love Broken Social Scene, so when I heard that Brendan Canning was dropping a solo project I wanted to do cart wheels and make sweet passionate love to the air. Brendan Canning makes the case that he might be the guy really responsible for the band's glisten, summoning goose bumps with gossamer strings and arranging rockers that simmer but don't singe. Love it!

Brendan Canning -- "Hit the Wall" (MP3)

I'm feeling this band out of Boston who goes by the name Passion Pit. It's something different and sounds a bit ethereal and a bit badass, with equally awesome synthesizers jaunting out like morning bending sunshine in your face to wake you up.

Passion Pit -- "Sleepyhead" (MP3)

And here's a track from Wolf Parade's latest album. I'm getting excited to see them this weekend.

Wolf Parade -- "Language City" (MP3)

Fleet Foxes are the rare breed of band that makes me embrace folk rock. It's able to revive a timeless sound that makes me want to drink ice tea out of a mason jar on a screen porch and talk about rolling hills, watering holes and lazy nights under the moon.

Fleet Foxes - "Ragged Wood" MP3

And this Austin band (now defunct) needs no introduction. Sound Team. I just really like the idea of them parading through East Austin, detesting gentrification and high rent costs, likely.

#SPLIT 07 - SOUND TEAM - No More Birthdays
by lablogotheque

This is typically how I spend the beginning of my workday: drowning myself in procrastination with Facebook like implications. I will say that I have potentially landed a job with the Houston Chronicle courtesy of Facebook, but that's an entirely separate blog in itself.

It's nearly one hour later now and I have made heroic strides in gussying up zero motivation to take heed of the serious carpal tunnel-like discomfort I've developed from the rampant clicking and surfing. I've managed to proficiently stare blankly at work tasks and deflect responsibility with ease.

How do you do it so well you ask? Or maybe I asked the question ...

In order to consider a certain amount of time as wasted, the primary factor is that there is no personal, spiritual, social or material gain at all. But it's hard to argue that it's not beneficial in learning what the entire cast of The Goonies is up to now.

I'm sort of pathologically leery of admitting to my tendency to procrastinate, considering editors at major publications have easy access to me now through Facebook, (I've been contacted already, no joke) so in light of that, I only procrastinate because I'm so far ahead that I have plenty of down time.

Look at this when you get a chance.

But doing it later is the name of the game.

Conversations of Inverse Proportions

One way to read this blog is as an indictment of nonsense, and the other more preferable way to glaze over every word is while wearing a headband and arm floaties because this blog is like a sweaty pool of dangerously deep banter that will stab your episode of boredom with a blunt object. But -- you should also consider these accessories during your perusal because it's really hot and you're really cool, too.

I recognize that claim as fact because you have voluntarily entered a forum that champions a self-proclaiming level of unrivaled dopeness. But today's blog will be a bit different.

Today, the operative topic meanders aimlessly through exerts of small talk and conversations that will reveal my horribly kept secret: I have a tendency to wear unplugged headphones in public to improve my eavesdropping skills under a stealth ninja-like guise.

Offering Prunes to Mr. T

(Guy walks into Whole Foods bathroom which is under construction, but still operating)

::Looks to left in stall that is missing door and sees Mr. T dropping an unsuspecting deuce::

Guy: Oh my God! You're Mr. T! This is awesome! Wow!

Mr. T: I pity the fool that won't let me take a poo-poo!! Mr. T needs his privacy -- so go handle your business.

Guy: Right ... I'll just close this imaginary door ... sorry. Inappropriate of me.

::Mr. T grunts like a warthog during a prostate exam::

Mr. T: Call the A-Team, I need backup little man.

Guy: Here, take these all natural prunes.

Mr. T: Boy, don't do drugs and stay in school ... and drink MILK! Now get outta here before Mr. T breaks your face.

Here's Mr. T getting mean and experiencing constipation.




Correct vs. Incorrect Use of 'Hot'

Man #1: I was afraid my pants were going to catch fire, not figuratively like she's so hot she's gonna set my loins on fire, but literally, she was a pyromaniac and breathed fire.

Man #2: Like, dude, her breath was so bad she was like a dragon?

Man #1: Naw, she tried to make friction between the sheets, if you know what I'm saying.

Man #2: No, I don't.

Man #1: She busted out candles and burned me, which is so not hot.

Man #2: What did you do?

Man #1: Called your mom and talked dirty to her just to get the cold shoulder.


Lonely Girl at Bar

"My friends used to worry about my bad habit of drinking alone. I'm glad I don't hang out with them anymore."

Pepper Grinder Silence

Waiter: (grinding) Just say when ...

Waiter: (grinding) Sir, just tell me when.

Patron: …

Waiter: Sir, let me know when you want me to stop.

Patron: …

Waiter: Sir? D- Do you want me to stop? Please just say something.

Patron: …

Waiter: Sir? Do you want this much pepper? I’m sorry, I know you’re a patron. I’ll keep going.

Patron: …

Waiter: Sir, with every passing second, more pepper is going onto your food… do you understand that? Do you understand what is happening?

Patron: …

Waiter: Is this … are you even going to eat this? The other customers…they- they’re all looking at you.

Patron: …

Waiter: Jesus Christ sir, what are you? Are you a human? Are you an actual human being? Or are you some kind of freak or something? I- I can’t even see the food anymore.

Patron: …

Waiter: Oh my God sir, this isn’t funny … my arm, it’s … oh my God it’s spasming…

Patron: Okay that’s good.


Tricking Guests to Eat Dog Food (side note, this is just a random thought I had from a recipe I was reading).

Blend fresh chicken with diced avocado, scallions, and a dollop of mayonnaise for a canapé topping so delicious that it will take your guests a full minute to realize that they’re eating it off dog biscuits. Once they catch on, act mortified and stammer that you must have “mixed up the boxes,” until everyone calms down. Then start crying because the biscuits remind you that today marks exactly eight weeks since your dog ran away, and you just miss him so much.

Body Language



At a local pretentious music show a man attempts to understand if a girl is into him by analyzing her body language.

The duke of gentle dance: I love this music. Hell yea, man. I'm just gonna tap my right foot and slightly bob my head. I'll play it cool and not really dance.

::Girl wipes beads of sweat from upper lip and exhales in exhaustion from sitting and not dancing::

Duke of gentle dance: Oh - she's so diggin' me. I must continue to dance with more rigorous folk energy. She just got up, that's a sign dude.

::Girl picks up beer bottle and drinks beer::

Duke of gentle dance: She's trying to tell me, indirectly that she wants to drink me, too.

::Girl gets up::

Girl: You suck at dancing. You look like sasquatch in a poncho. You can't even grow a mustache. So stop dancing.

::Girl pulls hair back and walks away::

Duke of gentle dance: She's totally into me.

Class "C" Celebrity

I will mindfully work to refrain from drowning you in irony when writing this bloggidy blog, but it might prove to be a futile effort.

For starters, lets get this out of the way. When I first was hired as a Web Editor/Reporter at News 8 Austin, I was told by my news manager (in jest?) that I would have to get a nose job before I stepped in front of a TV camera. I responded with the most awkward laughter I've ever managed to squeak out.

I don't have a crooked nose, though if NASA scientists were to study and analyze my facial features under a space telescope, they might feel compelled to write uninspired literature about a peculiar asymmetry that you find on Wall Street, or at municipal political conventions ... a slight crookedness. And that's a reeeeeeeaaaaccchhhh too.

I manage the News 8 Web site. I now am in charge of reporting Web sites of interests on TV. I date online ... totally joking about the last part. 0h yea - and I'm Ron Burgandy?

Everyone knows that my pillow acts as my personal stylist and I rock the casual attire with the ferocity of a rabid wolverine. Don't be misled in thinking I'm not surprisingly clean and nice smelling though, there's more to the rugged exterior than meets the eye.

But yesterday, a TV viewer sent this e-mail: "Who is that guy in the Cubs T-shirt? He looks like he just rolled out of bed."

Thank you, viewer, for stating the obvious. My reply to you:

I cordially invite you to consider this highly lucrative proposal. "Feel free to accept it or send it right back. I want to be on you." - Ron Burgandy.



I've always declined to do this little TV segment for the news, but on this glorious day, I wanted to stick it to the man, so I got in front of the camera with my trademark jagged look and gave my best lifeless zombie of a performance manageable.

I will admit I was more stiff than a petrified rock being told by law enforcement to "FREEZE"... No personality on air and I showcased very little conviction in my future in front of cameras. But the idea was to broadcast my brooding mug across Austin for the sake of saying, "I'm Kind of a big deal."

I was sitting at my desk, when I was welcomed by deafening applause by my colleagues. My performance was well received by laughs. A string of explanations failed to quell the abominable on-air presence I portrayed. But it felt good, minus the ring of sweat I produced under my arms during the one-take shoot.

Looking for a brief laugh? ... DISCLAIMER: I laugh at myself with ease, and so should you. BUT, this posting does not in any way shape or form discount my heroic ability to be dope on a consistent basis.

Here you go. Enjoy it.

----> JJ's 15 seconds of fame (shame?)