The most tangible difference in my life since I started this blog

is that now, I'm always trying to figure out what to write in it.

Today, I was waiting for my bus, when I realized I hadn;t updated in a couple of days. I had no idea what to write about. I started noticing all the people. In front of me was a woman in a green shirt and a black skirt reading a book about how to take control of one's own mind. We had a brief conversation about a fly.

"Oh my!" she swatted a bit.

"What's the matter?"

"There was this bug flying around!"

"Oooh."

"You know, if it was flying around here, it must be dirty."

"Well, I think, it's probably the same to a bug as a lot of other pplaces."

"Huh?"

"Well, it probably looks the same. Because like, a bug is so small."

"Yeeeah, and this place is so big to a bug! I meant though, like food and stuff. Like, look at that." She pointed to what looked like two beans wedged between the window and the top of the brick that the wall that wasn't window was made of.

"Bug heaven."

"Bug buffet, we call it in my house, when we leave food around and bugs get it. I don't allow that."

"Very wise."

"My husband is the wise one."

"Your husband?"

"He's very into cellophane."

"Cellophane?"

"For preventing bug buffet."

I think I would have had that conversation even if not for the blog, but I can't be sure. I made a lot of effort to notice people behind me in line. There was one oldish lady in an orange shirt and a straw hat. There was a couple who were embracing, rocking back and forth, the woman singing into the man's chest. There were a couple of kids from my town who had been on the bus on the way in, one of them a boy with pink hair who appeared to be wearing a skirt and small wings on his back, and a girl who was wearing a lei (btw, the first result for "lei" on google images is, for some reason, a naked woman spreading her legs at the camera. There is no flowery necklace anywhere in the picture).

I also noticed another person who had been on the bus on the way in, a young woman with a dark complexion, wearing short overalls and had a bit of pink in her hair. I waved to her, and she waved back. She seemed to be standing in line with a rather overweight man who had a fauxhawk. I really hoped she wasn't with him. She had a vitality that I couldn't imagine in this man, or so I believed for the purpose of writing this blog.

I can't tell if thinking of things as potential blog fodder is good or bad. One on hand, it means I notice things more, but on the other hand, I always noticed things a lot of people don't, and I feel like it makes me seem really sketchy. This could just accentuate that. Also, it means I might never experience things for their own sake.

Meh.

I REALLY wanna see Mister Lonely

How can it possibly not be good?

Also, see Gummo and Julien Donkey-Boy right away.

The thing about Harmony Korine, is that he really sees the beauty in his subjects without idealizing them. Or something. It's like nostalgia minus sepia.

So, if anyone can make a movie about a lonesome Michael Jackson impersonator without it being irritatingly cutesy, it's him.

The development of The Prodigal Son as a conversationalist

From zero years to one year old, most of my communication consisted of the standard gurgles. Sometime after that, I said the word "ball." It's just been uphill from there.

My very first communication was about superheroes. This is because my father taught me the secret identities of the superheroes. He used to parade me around like a prize poodle who knew one trick, supplying me with the names of costumed vigilantes.

"The Hulk!"

"Bwuce Banna!"

"Spiderman!"

"Peta Pahka!"

"Batman!"

"Bwuce Wayne!"

I also knew many of the theme songs from the TV shows. I used to go around singing them. Adults seemed to like this. It also, along with, later on, my spelling abilities, seemed to garner grudging respect from my peers. I learned that if you knew something that not everybody did, it made you cool. Of course, it was a lot less cool when I turned eleven or so, and still tried to impress people with my knowledge of comics, which exploded into obsession passed its beginnings as a kind of parlor trick for my dad.

Then, I got into movies. Suddenly, everything related to films. I would go out of my way to direct conversations to the topic of cinema, constructing extended metaphors that made no sense whatsoever. Also, in my beginnings as a cinephile, I got very self-righteous, yelling at girls who thought Johnny Depp was "like, so hot in Secret Window," telling them to watch Edward Scissorhands.

I was cool and smart.

My teachers said I had a lot of potential, and they told my mother I was very handsome, which made up for the hatred from most of my peers.

Then, I went to a gifted program camp. It wasn't great, but I made a very good friend. The next summer, we did the program again, but at a different college campus. We had both discovered masturbation, and we talked about it constantly, especially before we went to bed. It would be interspersed with references to fairly standard classic movies.

When I went back home, this time to a new town, I had a new topic of conversation.

I was cool and smart.

Somewhere in the middle of eighth grade, I realized that I actually enjoyed talking to people, even if most of them did not like talking to me. How would I be able to have conversations? I thought I found an answer. I would get into music.

That summer, I went back to the gifted program, for the third and last year I would ever go. Someone gave me their Queen best-of CD. People also talked a lot about Pink Floyd, so I found Wish you Were Here when i got home. At school, I found someone who would burn CDs for me if I did the same for them. My uncle lent me Maggot Brain, and they gave me a copy of The Velvet Underground and Nico. Soon, I became the same way about music as I had with movies. Both became passions. I spent hours indulging in both, and looking for hours on the internet for information. Funnily enough, this sort of internet research is a solitary activity.

I was cool and smart.

Fortunately, in ninth grade, I did find a group of people, and magically enough, we talked, and still do.

For several years, all I talked about was music, movies, and masturbation. However, I learned to talk about something else as well, somewhere along the line, as this blog will attest to: myself!

Conversations used to start, "You know what would be a great time? Whacking it to Funkadelic."

Now they begin, "I will have a great time whacking it to Funkadelic."

I am cool and smart.

First swim of the summer

We've got this brook right by our school. We call it "The AIDS", something which really bothers my dad, but that's not what I'm talking about right now.

Now, generally, the brook is very shallow. One can go in it and hop from rock to rock, and it's not very wide at all, so it's very easy to get something that has fallen in it or to just go across without using the bridge. However, after a rain, it will fill up. Yesterday, it rained for awhile.

So, myself and a friend went to toss a frisbee around by the school. I three it across the brook. My friend got it and threw it back to me. I was standing right next to the water, which was a lovely shade of brown. I don't really have to say what happened.

We talked about getting it with a stick for a little while. That wasn't going to work. My friend decided that maybe we could go in. She's very short, so we decided I would go in. It only went up jsut above my knee. This wasn't so bad. However, the frisbee was quite a ways away. There was a drop, and the murk was up to my waist. Then, my chest.

The best bit? When I finally got to the frisbee, the area that it was in only went to my knees.

So, we walked back.

"You know, Josh, I really feel like I should have gone in to sympathize with you. Actually, now I'd really like to go in. Oh well."

"You want to?"

We ran back.

"You know, now I'm not sure...."

I threw the disc in.


P.S. Google tells me that my highschool is the only one in America that has an outdoor amphitheatre with a brook running through it. God must REALLY like me.

Formative childhood experience

When I was in elementary school, we had to make timelines of our lives. We were supposed to put important events on it. On it, I had my birth, the births of each of my sisters, and the time I got my head stuck. I think that is the single most important event of my life.

This happened back when I lived in Park Slope, in Brooklyn. I was five or six years old at the time. At the synagogue I went to, they had this great playground. You could go on it for hours, and you'd end up incredibly dusty by the end, because it's not like they had grass or anything. Just dust. I also played some pretty intense handball games there. They also had this fantastic jungle gym swingset thingamabobber, with this long metal slide that used to heat up in the sun to the point where our little Jewish behinds would fry. Holding up the set were these long wooden square post type things. On each side they had a couple spaced very closely together, not enough space to slip in between, but just enough to put your head in. Barely. Being the young, adventurous soul I was, I decided to do just that. But I couldn't get it out. I yelled for help, or maybe someone just noticed me, and they got a little pink chair for me to sit in. My dad stuck his head out the window, as someone had told him that my head was stuck. It was a really big event. The Rabbi, I think even, came outside. People offered tips: "Try wiggling it!," "If you got in you have to be able to get out," until someone ran down with some soap. that didn't help, but my head got a nice wash. Eventually, they called the fire department, and the firemen used the jaws of life to pry the bars apart, and I was free!

Not only has this affected me, it has affected those around me. My sister, who is seventeen months younger, says this is her first memory. The synagogue eventually took the swingset down, though that could also be because of Jew-ass flambe.

Even better than all this, though, is that people at the synagogue still remember. on the occasions we go back there, once or twice a year, inevitably, someone whose name i won't know will come up to me.

"Joshie!"

"Heeeeey!!"

"How is Connecticut?"

"Uh, we actually live in New Jersey now."

"Oh riiiight, your mother was telling me about that. Oh my, you've grown so much. I remember when you were up to my hip. You used to get in the funniest situations. I'm sure you don't remember the time when the fire department had to come and rescue you?"

The best cover ever

Not counting some where the cover version is the most famous. Or ones that I'm forgetting right now. My favorite as of this moment in time.

The winner is Dinosaur Jr.'s cover of "Just Like Heaven" by The Cure!

What is it that makes this version so good? Who would have known that Robert Smith's melodic wobble would have translated well to J. Mascis' slacker moan? Even better, the jangly guitars of the original somehow sound just as good when distorted and played in J Mascis style. Plus, of course, this one has a Dino Jr. guitar solo (the best kind).

I think part of what makes it so good is that Dinosaur Jr. and the Cure are both about the same number of steps removed from punk, just in very different directions. The Cure took the whole British post-punk to pop new wave thing and ran with it, and Dinosaur Jr. were born out of the American hardcore thing that turned into the sort of 80s alternative thing that went on SST records (along with Dino Jr, the Minutemen, the Meat Puppets, etc). I think the steps removed thing is what makes "Just Like Heaven" seem so right as a Dino Jr. song.

Also, the video has puppets.

The Cure version

The Dinosaur Jr. version

I'm sure a lot of you (well, seeing as "a lot" of people don;t read this, that isn't true) know this already, but I've just been having a bit of a personal Dinosaur Jr. revival lately.

Some ridiculousness.

A dramatic reading of a REAL break-up letter

I don't know if anyone else will like it quite as much.

Visitor Q

Studying for finals is an asshole. Therefore, I will post a movie review!

Visitor Q

Plot: A family is very seriously depraved. The father, a washed up television reporter, has sex with his prostitute daughter. The mother shoots up heroin to numb the pain from being beaten by her son, who is picked on at school, and uses some sort of Dennis Hopper-in-Blue Velvet gas mask. A visitor comes who hits the father on the head with a rock, teaches the mother how to milk herself, de-emasculates the father emotionally, and makes things better-- kind of.
Takashi Miike's film is quite an odd one, and for reasons other than the lactation, incest, and necrophilia scenes, though those alone do make it the ideal family film (as in, you'll get some peace and quiet because your family will be afraid of ever speaking to you again). No, what makes Visitor Q so odd is that it seems to be satirizing a variety of societal conventions, as well as encouraging some.
Take, for instance, the family that the movie presents. They are unbelievably fucked up. They are all unhappy. Then, the title character comes in, and seems to make everyone happy by having them all work together-- but doing horrible things. There is one scene with the father and mother that is hilarious, because it is a heartwarming scene where the parents do something together to help their child-- but what they are doing, I won't say. Scenes like this seem to simultaneously condemn and encourage traditional family structure. The film is actually kind of uplifting, if viewed from a certain perspective. Viewed from another (which you probably will) it's sickeningly disturbing.
Miike is also mocking reality television. The movie is all filmed in a style that is intentionally uncinematic. Many of the moments seem like they could come from an episode of "True Life." The behavior on display in this film, and the style it is filmed in, made me question my own watching of shows such as that. The film itself makes the viewer feel incredibly voyeuristic. The fact that it invites laughter (or maybe that was just for me... I initially watched it with a few friends who did not find it quite as funny) is either a tribute to the skills of the people involved or a sad comment on how our society has been pervaded by television that makes things very impersonal and distant. The answer probably lies somewhere in between.
I highly recommend Visitor Q. While it can be watched simply for shock value, there is definitely a lot of commentary on society in it.

Some links

Lumberjacks Anonymous

Some musicks from a coupla palsy walsies.

Positive Boredom

The rather brilliant musings of a young Irishman, to whom the existence of this blog is owed. He knows. He knows.

Fighting

I have been in about three fights in my life. Here is the glorious history, not necessarily chronological.

#1

This one is from when I lived in Connecticut. I had neighbors who were always skateboarding, biking, scootering and such. They were pretty extreme. Sometimes they let me play with them, but a lot of the time they didn't, probably because I was an irritating little asshole. One of the children did not get along with me at all. I had my friend Mikey over, and we were outside, when we came across this young specimen of totally Xtreme manhood. We had a heated verbal battle.

Me: You suck
Him: You suck
Me: Your mom has sex with people!
Him: You;re talking about MY mother? Your mama is so fat she can sit around the house... literally!
Me: You;re stupid! I hate you! Your mom is so stupid she starved in a supermarket!

Or something like that. Mikey had ran off out of fright, and I eventually ended up getting punched in the stomach. I walked home doubled over and out of breath. I thought of various elaborate revenge schemes for several months, most of which involved me kidnapping and torturing him. That asshole.

#2

I'm especially proud of this one. It occurred when I went to Camp Ramah, which is where I learned how to swear.. or maybe not how to particularly decently, but at least what the swear words were. But that's not really part of my story.

One night, a female counselor came to our cabin to tell us about when she worked at/visited a dairy farm. She talked about how you could hold out two fingers and the calves would "milk" them. We were all being obnoxious and interrupting her. None of them liked me, but I decided to make a joke. Holding out two fingers as she had, I addressed her: "Milk me." The rest of my cabin broke out laughing. Not so bad, I thought. I'm funny. However, I soon noticed my counselor was very angry. I was the only one who did not see the innuendo. For about a second. Then I realized it probably had something to do with sex. Maybe even with blowjobs, which the campers seemed to talk about so much. (Being the oldest child in my family, I've never been the wise one who was able to impress everyone by talking about dirty things. I was always one of the last to find out.) After the female counselor left, we all got a very stern talking to. Especially me. Any chance of fun I had was completely ruined by the fact that my cabin was now calling me "Bessie the Cow" or constantly going up to me saying "Milk me!" One camper was especially persistent. After the others had long stopped, he kept at it. One day, I told him not to, and he did. My weak little fist was buried in his stomach, and then I started running with his hands pummeling my back. then counselors came and broke it up. Quite epic.

#3

This was last Halloween. My friend's brother went trick or treating with us, even though he didn't want to. He thought we were too old and should be at a party. He was very grouchy, and I felt a sudden sense of purpose as he yelled at a friend, who had, for the first time in all that I had known her, gotten very visibly upset. I went up to him and elbowed him in the stomach. Then he started hitting me, or rather trying to, but thankfully missing, because I'm a skinny little bitch and he's a rather burly young man, who is actually incredibly nice. Pretty much instant regret. We;re on quite good terms now, though. Not quite as fun a story. I would have deserved it if he actually hit me at all, but by gosh, you just don't yell like that. Especially not in front of Josh... or should I say, Prince Valiant?

The glorious beginning of my cinematic career.

Being a Jew, and therefore having connections in the seedy Jewish underworld, a family friend who is for some reason quite fond of me found a job filming a Bar Mitzvah. This friend had previously wanted me to photograph her son's Bar Mitzvah, but having no real experience with such a thing, and a friend who is a talented photographer, I declined the offer, and gave it to this friend. Still, she was determined that I make money, and gave me the contact information of the parents of a young Member of the Tribe named Leo who would be making the great Journey into Manhood.

Now, I don;t actually have experience with video, other than my current film class and several "experimental" shorts made on my video camera, mostly of people saying things like "Josh, turn off the fucking camera!" (I like to think I have a very self-aware cinematic voice). Here is how the conversation with the mother of young Leo went, or something like that.

TPS: Hello, my name is Josh. Uh, Jill gave me this number?

Leo's mother: Oh, hello. You're the one who can do the filming?

TPS: Yeah.

LM: So, what have you done?

TPS: Well, um, I have to admit to not having a ton of experience but I am in a film class in my highschool.

LM: Have you ever done this before?

TPS: Actually, this would be my first job. I was jsut wondering, I don;t really have editing equipment, and as for camera....

LM: Oh, don;t worry about editing, and we have a camera. We just want a nice little thing to remember it by.

And so on. She sounded very anxious the whole time, which is a condition many parents suffer from right before their children's Bar or Bat Mitzvahs. I felt as if I was taking advantage of her, and I was afraid I got the job because she didn't want to hurt my feelings. But, most importantly, I did get the job. The party (I wasn't going to be filming the ceremony) was to be held in a few weeks at the local art museum.

So, a few weeks later, I went to the local art museum, dressed in suit. The photographer and I had both gotten there before anyone else, and we began chatting. She was an actual professional photographer, a very small middle aged woman. People finally began to arrive. I asked them to say things into the camera.

"Hello, Leo, it's your aunt Lottie, I just want to say, we're all very proud of you, and you did a wonderful job on your Torah reading."

"Leo! Your cousins and I would like to congratulate you!"

etc.


The party started. I scanned the room with the camera, occasionally waving to people so they would wave back. I was very cautious, so as not to film any cleavage, and to make sure that I didn't seem to have any frightening tendencies. This meant, I didn't try to film any single element too much. For example, I tried not to have too many shots of plates of food. I did not think it was in my best interest for my employers to think I had a cocktail weenie fetish.

Then the candle lighting ceremony happened. In a candle lighting ceremony, if you do not know, relatives and friends are invited to light candles on a cake with little couplets such as, "You're supernice and your cookies are great, Grandma Fanny, come light candle eight."

Then came the neverending dancing.

If there is one thing I can go through life without hearing again, it is a techno remix of "Don't Stop Believing."


Young Mr. Leo may grow up to be our next president. However, he did not look particularly winning crankin' that Soulja Boy. Watching a room full of mostly white seventh graders who look very excited about the prospect of supermanning a ho sent me into a philosophical spiral. Did they know what that was? If they did know, would they do it? How much money would I be paid to film that? Would this tape, years down the line, cause Leo to contemplate suicide?

Then there was a little photo bit. Then I got paid, killing any regrets I might have had.

Salutations, greetings, all that nonsense.

Well, having never really done this before, I don't know what to say. Aren't introductions awkward? Well, to my readership of two, I say hello. I'm thankful.

I was born in a Brooklyn hospital many moons ago, after which I tripped. I have continued this legacy.