A little doodle I done did with my kid.

A little doodle I done did with my kid.

…I also know enough about the penal system in ‘Murrica to be sick about it, and even though I don’t have a clue how to turn the tide of stupid-headed stupidism that’s given this country one of the most effed-up, over-incarcerating, stupid-dumb penal codes in the world, well, maybe I can strike a blow for the good by listening to the stories of people who’ve been curb-stomped by society. Listening is, after all, an act of love. josh barkey: Jail-happy America

Fun Fact: Depression is an actual (invisible, marble-sized) creature named Steve that gets into your medulla oblongata and saps your willpower to keep you from doing the things that you know will make you feel better (exercise, good food, communing with other humans). Which is to say that depression is both physiological and personal, and that while its effects can be temporarily ameliorated with the heavy use of narcotics, if you want it out of your head you’re going to have to go in after it with a crocheting needle.

I’ve been looking for a crocheting needle, but can’t seem to find one. So I’m having a hard time summoning the gumption for another blog post.

Instead, I’m going to gift you with this marvelous collection of some of my more interesting facebook status updates from over the past month. You’re welcome. Feel free to send me a laundry bill for all your laugh-urine stained underpants. Or just send the underpants. My address is 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. / Washington, DC. /2500. You’re welcome again…

josh barkey: Status: (ab)Normal

Please.

Welcome to America.

Here is your slate - don’t lose it. If you haven’t noticed, yet, it’s theoretically blank. But there’s a bar code with a whole lot of information and we’re going to scan it everywhere and, ha-ha, fun-fact: even if you do lose it we also tattooed that bar code onto your face. You’re welcome. In the interests of clarity, here are some things you should know…

If you are a woman, here is your job:

You are to look beautiful and young, and walk around so that men will see you, and tell you as much. “Beautiful” will be defined as follows: mostly-hairless, except on top. Mostly pore-less, especially on top. Emaciated-skinny wherever it’s in vogue to be so, and bulbous or rounded where it’s not — regardless of the physiological practicality of this, given your particular bone-structure and musculature. Laugh loudly and without reserve, but not too loudly. Wear a solid half-inch of make-up, but look as though you’re wearing none. Be smart when necessary, but always less smart than the most powerful man in the room. Throw money around like dead skin cells, never apologize for it, and if you ever DO grow old or put on a few extra pounds in the wrong places, have the decency to hide yourself away where no one has to look at you. You are, after all, primarily for looking at. Be slutty but coy, reserved but attainable, and resist the sexual advances of everyone right up until the very second when you throw off all your clothes and explode into meow-meow-psycho-jungle-cat sex-pot insanity. And if any of this makes you anxious, well, we’ve got pills for that. And shoes…

josh barkey: america the screwediful

depression

She is there.
On me.
Her breath warm and moist
billows over and around
and I am wrapped,
drowned.

And then a low-voice grumbling
like the front-end rush of
a rumbling liquid surge
asks: why?

That’s it. That’s all.
Just… why?
But I finish and fill,
adding:

Why oh why do we persevere?
Is it hope, or is it fear
that makes us shy, when death draws near?
Oh—is it hope, or is it fear?

And why oh why do we persevere?

Sam was the first Masterton I ever met. I saw him walking down the side of the road outside Ft. Langley, British Columbia. He had a guitar-case in hand, Desperado-style, but I guess I didn’t put two-and-two together, because I pulled my peeling-paint Volkswagen Jetta over and offered him a ride. He didn’t shoot or knife me or anything, but when in time I came to know the rest of the crazy Masterton clan, I had to wonder how I’d missed the signs… josh barkey: Mad Masterton
More proof that the only difference between me and an Oscar-winning actor is photoshop.

More proof that the only difference between me and an Oscar-winning actor is photoshop.