Josh Stern's Blog, page 172

And, all this time, I didn't think their was another Keith Moon. WRONG! I was. You have an extreme grasp on bad girls, old rockers and vagina-lead-men-who-long-to-extend-their legacies. Right on, yeah. You read much Bukowski? Charles had a handle on t

Sorry to just see this now.  Thanks, glad you got a kick out of it ;D  Best to you

Lead me not into temptation, just point me in that direction”

Ben Affleck said: ‘it doesn’t matter that  you get knocked down in life, what matters is that you get up”

I say: ‘It doesn’t matter that you get knocked up in life, what matters is that you go down”

If all men are brothers, then we’re no strangers to atomic wedgies. In a few days I have to go to remember the third Anniversary of my Dad’s passing which should be an intensely sad affair, if not for the numbing effect of it’s surreal infusion of total meaningless ludicrousness-I believe that no problem is so large or so difficult that you can’t hand in your letter of resignation

 - That’s like a thousand days of him not being here…and not much has been produced in his absence…I haven’t written another book or nailed a high school infatuation, or even scaled the top of the Roca Jack in the Andes to ski a ‘No-Fall’ zone….Nope with the exception of a few killer tweets out of tens of thousands and a few good turns in the washroom; there’s been nothing of note

I guess this year out of commission’s highlight has principally been enjoying the bearable lightness of not fucking up… I was born fully equipped with 5 senses, why would I need a sense of accomplishment?

 

So what I’m trying to say is : Always take time to stop and smell the Roses…there’s always a few in the assisted living home…and they don’t mind being smelled…most of them are too senile to notice…yeah ‘wrong hole is the look I was aiming for’ ….Just remember: It takes fewer muscles to smile than to frown… and fewer still to pull the trigger”

Yeah it may seem that It’s always darkest before the dawn, and always stubbiest too…and you can’t find the phone to dial 911 and ask to bring the jaws of life and a nail clipper and if they could possibly send over a firing squad to shoot the side of the bed that you stubbed into..if it’s not too much to ask for and maybe a better table one not so close to the restrooms

 

 

 

Uppity Yoga chicks should get namastectomies and have the mats removed from their rectums

Montreal is Lululemon central- so their mid-calf legging is pretty much a ‘de facto’ uniform…everyday the propriety of when and where they are appropriate is being chipped away much the way they think the Ugg shearling boot became a fashion must have…spotted at Paperman and Sons for a a funeral of a distant great Aunt, then off to Vic Park gym for the sacred yoga class…Moishes then …

How I’ve grown to loathe the sight of legions of Chick in their mid-calves, Moncler or Canada Goose down puffy jackets, and the ubiquitous yoga mat quiver slung over a shoulder..like she was raised in Sherwood Forest and replace her arrows with a bacteria laden, squishy rubber welcome mat…Uppity, holier than thou, in need of a shower more than thou

   

Ever notice how Sex fucks everything up

moron this later….This is gonna be the new title of my new book- as being the new title of my old book, while a shrewd marketing ploy for a fast cash out; will invariably cause me to see my immediate family tied to chairs and blown away before my very eyes..which usually makes me horny..and having the parking brake on

So yes, this will indeed be a new low point in my writing but it’s a catchy title so I should get extra credit of about 5 pages before anyone seriously thinks to themselves ‘The guy is certifiable and what street corner did I buy this book at …the beauty of a folding bridge table at a Chelsea Street Fair 

If I have to get stepped on, I sure hope it's by a camel toe

I have an outreach program, it's called groping

I fucking hate depressed chicken…it just wrecks my mood at the end of the day when I try to uncoil from the day’s jagged enema….y’know like a hypodermic to the neck from some creepy chicken dude who’s more concerned with  Shwarma jihad or a second parking garage level for the spare body parts not  picked up in the last Mumbai organ exchange….It just  wrecks the whole pickup experience and makes me feel like a victim of automatic gunfire violence who can’t vote.  The chicken is delicious but the pallor of creepiness is a special sauce that dares not speak it’s name

Chicken should be happy..made by happy gang bang

ers with no vendettas against Mark Wahlberg… But that creepy Mr Rotisserie never sleeps, never poops, never writes hailkus…he just fixates on the rotating chicken like the rest of us fixate on a laundromat’s dryer full of some lepers unmentionables

It’s like when a Chick asks me “Does this make me look fat?” 

……I always answer ‘I think it’s pretty much a voluntary thing” But why do I have to be put in such a bed of ails position where any answer will be held against me in a food court 

Meth Mondays always leads to Crash Wednesdays- and I’m burning …the trick is to find an up and coming chicken joint…there must be an app for that….something better, would be a local app for non-creepy chicken joint owners…maybe a profile or a bio…what his likes are… his hobbies…lepidopterist? lycanthropist? Sure it’ll get weird, but at least it’s out there for all to read and process.  I want to know if the Chicken Hitler drinks puddle water, or watches Downton Abbey in a saddle shoes

Chicken is an art form, not a performing art…reading the disgruntled manifesto of a rosemary and thyme-addled Social Disobedient affords the end consumer an opportunity to decide if you really want fries with that or rice pilaf… 

Any snowstorm without a manhunt, is just a waste of a good blizzard

I think if we all acted the way we really felt, most people at a dinner party would be sitting there with their pants off, reading a paper  Most men score in that unguarded moment Whoever thought of attaching an amplifier to an inflatable sex doll, was way off base

My fake plants died, because I overwatered them

When I was a kid, one of the most magical things was belonging to the camaraderie of Cub Scouts,  There were literally scores of Wolf cub packs in Montreal and ours must have had 75 kids..Our Akela or cub scout master had this funny name like Peter pan or Peter pagan, he was pretty strict but overall he was an amazing guy- and it was fun to hang out with all my friends before girls would add over layers of toxic complication to an otherwise straightforward social landscape

I still see guys I went to Cub Scouts with and it’s a bond that clove hitches….So hearing this whole debate about Gays in the Boy Scouts makes me chuckle and just say- let the kids decide…

First, let me say having 2 Gay Brothers, who I am super tight with, it’s pretty much a ‘big whup’ situation but it should be something judged in a ‘ski by feel’ sort of way

When it came time to transition from cub scouts to boy scouts- all the guys in the cub pack were pretty stoked to take it to a higher level.  We were sorry to leave the fun, but it held the promise of new adventures…so at first meeting with Ebby- the Boy Scout Leader, was much anticipated…especially how did he stack up to our Akela….

Ebby was this young guy with a stick straight part in his hair and para-military posture…a strict disciplinarian with a smirk-inducing lisp..Hey it was the 70s and we were all about 12-13, but the red light alarms went off and there was an impromptu meeting after the first meeting where the upshot was basically: ‘Fuck this shit, I’m outta here’  and that was that…I hadn’t thought about it for years and wonder who went back …not wondering what became of them as you’re born like that….

Our Parents were oblivious..it wasn’t on the radar so the kids knew their comfort level…it should be decided on a case by case basis and the kids are no dummies they know they’re comfort zone and Parents are far more vigilant and participatory these days…just wait until guns get introduced

I can't read lips, unless they're in braille

I love it when a guest on Maury, who in a surprise twist to the paternity test of a guy she was sure was the Father ….now doesn’t know who the baby’s daddy is…and so runs to the backstage and doesn’t make it to the sofa and hits the floor sobbing…while the presumed daddy calls her all sorts of mean (but true) names…

it sort of makes me wistful about not being raised white trash and seriously upset at my Parents for being upstanding pillars of the community who lived in a Pink Bubble….

I started drinking out of a jar only last month…and a ‘still’ was just another name for an old fashioned picture…

The 60s gave us grey ponytailed old farts in saggy ass jeans and skirts, whose flawed revisionist...

The 60s gave us grey ponytailed old farts in saggy ass jeans and skirts, whose flawed revisionist history has given them an unqualified relevance in a world that scoffs at the very look at them…How I loathe and scorn these fossilized head shop relics whose memories have waned to the point of erosion and blame everything on a sybaritic lifestyle that few actually lived through and mercifully much less survived…

When you look back at archival footage of these badly dressed clowns, it’s more a spectacle of how pointless and wrong you were and how much fun it is to laugh at you now and then…the only mitigating fluke is music and movies as poetry sucks and Sushi was more of an 80’s thing

To think that by now, Grace Slick having successfully gone through menopause, should seriously consider a name change…something befitting her stage in life…something like Grace Vaginal Dryness or just Grace Chafe