Since turning thirty, I’ve been on a steady diet of a miracle food known as the “Tastykake Chocolate Jr.” and a TV show called “Californication”. [Obligatory Synopsis Warning] “Californication” is about a dysfunctional writer, Hank Moody, (played by David Duchovny) who moves to LA from the Big Apple, only to be estranged from his pseudo-wife, child and muse. He lands up writing a blog, which he fully acknowledges is a complete repudiation of everything he claims to be. He gets laid all the time by women he’s not that into, he says exactly what’s on his mind without reservation, and, on occasion, he floors people with one punch. (Catch any fun filled facts with which I might be identifying? - hint: it’s not the “gets laid” part.) Of course, just beneath the tough guy veneer, he’s got a real sensitive side (still loves his ex) that compels him to do the right thing in all the most difficult situations– think: the classic character trait of every TV hero… ever. The Tastykake Chocolate Jr. is equally enjoyable and unhealthy for both the body and soul, only with chocolate and without the constant X-files flashbacks. Chocolate and TV, TV and chocolate, chocolate and TV, repeat. Maybe thirty won’t be so bad after all– though it could be difficult to sustain this demanding a regimen.

I recently read somewhere that people who are depressed watch a lot of TV and eat a lot of junk food; Moody drinks and has a lot of sex– also he curses frequently. Spend some time thinking about which is a better way of coping. Fucking difficult comparison, huh?

A good friend of mine suggested that I sex my way out of depression, but it’s hard to attract women when there are so many Chocolate Jr.’s left to eat. Perhaps I’m missing the point of male existence, or maybe I just like sponge cake with two layers of chocolate more than I should, but all that sex seems very sweaty, time consuming, and chocolateless.

A great man (actually this guy was a completes asshole) once told me that the key to being a happy (heterosexual) male involved convincing women that they really like allowing you to do the things that you really like to do. That way, he explained, you can drink lots of beer and go to football games on birthdays and anniversaries. I believe this man went on to become a high functioning alcoholic. Hank Moody would have knocked his ass out.

A few people have been throwing around the “thirty is the new twenty” phrase in an apparent attempt to ease my pain. I’m certain that neither they nor I believe this horseshit. However, it’s the thought that counts when it comes to easing pain– so, I suppose, I feel assuaged at some theoretical level. Anyway, turning thirty is the least of my problems in the grand scheme of things. My brother pointed out that, while I may not die in the immediate future, a diet made up exclusively of Chocolate Jr.’s won’t help matters any, and Fat Bernard lurks just around the corner, waiting for his re-appointment (unfortunately, Fat Bernard was featured prominently throughout 2006, 2007 and the more shameful parts of 2008, and exhibits an unusually high rate of survival… and lurking.)

And now for something completely different…

I’m going to break a rule I secretly established a year ago when I started scribbling down my thoughts for all the interweb to see/ignore. Perhaps, given my newly earned first digit and all its tertiary valor, this is a sign of real maturation, or perhaps it’s just a sugar-high combined with intense TV driven sleep deprivation, but, whatever the case, I’m doing this right here, right now: I started all this blog nonsense a year ago because depression is a fucking bitch, and sometimes it helps to make a bunch of jokes and laugh at the madness around you. Sometimes it helps, and sometimes it just lands up hurting worse, but, either way, it keeps you busy. Comedy is the offspring of the tortured soul or at least the tortured psyche (I’m sure someone else deserves credit for that lame-ass saying, so feel free to blame them here– or anywhere else you see fit); I know making jokes doesn’t solve any problems, but it does at least help me look at problems from a more interesting angle. (Like the angle where I’m not getting kicked in the balls.) So forgive me if I have to punch out a few motherfuckers on my way to a promised-land people call “happiness”, but some folks don’t get to ride off into the sunset with the girl they love as the credits role. Some of us have to settle for guilt ridden chocolate stains and a little rectangular image of somebody else’s fairy-tale ride. In the mean time, don’t for one second confuse that imagery with some sort of pansy-ass biographical reference, because a man like me, hyped up on chocolate and lack of sleep, is one dangerous ass blogger who will, for sure, knock your ass out. So watch out Duchovny… I’m gunnin’ for you, and my shit’s for real.

Happy 30^th Birthday, Bern.