Joshua Topolsky

Remember that Fader article I mentioned like two posts ago? Well we’ve got that mix up now. You can check it out here. Also, they’ve included the actual article, for all of you out there who hate hate hate old media.

Just a few thoughts for the day.

1. People love lists. Just ask Digg.
2. If you need to get your computer fixed, don’t take it to Best Buy.
3. If you need to get your car fixed, don’t take it to Pep Boys.
4. Don’t eat at Pizzeria Uno unless you want to be fat, unhealthy, and poor.

You know, I don’t update this blog as often as I should. It’s just, after a day of blogging, one doesn’t immediately reach for the blog control and blog writing instrument and blog fellows and blog dictionary and begin typing a secret message into one’s blog — does one?

But more to the point, is people reading this thing anyway? I suppose I’ll know when my poor grammar is corrected by a load of dedicated joshuatopolsky.com readers. Like my wife.

I had a thought recently, concerning music. My thought is thus: an almost-instant response in my mind when I hear a new song I like is: “I’m going to be bored of this song after 10 listens.” I know it sounds doom and gloom, but I have to admit it, my brain doesn’t want to like anything it doesn’t already like! This is a sign of old age, I know, which is how my parents, who grew up during the birth of rock n’ roll, the peace movement, the American civil rights jig, and a slew of other beautiful, meaningful, music-creating incidents only want to listen to Frank Sinatra. To be fair, I think my mother owns a few Taylor Dayne albums. So I guess it is possible to learn to like new music, it will just be festering garbage.

The long and short of it is that I’m slowing down, getting gray, and thinking about a place in the country where my babies can run, screaming through the fields, the blur of our red farmhouse beside them, and a dangerous highway nearby. I may have just experienced a sense-memory of the film Pet Sematary, but we can never know for sure.

Watch your Achille’s heel, friends.

It’s my birthday. I’m 30 today. It’s a pretty exciting time for me. I’ve developed classy, manly laugh lines and slight wrinkles, my hair has become a salt and pepper, less-than George Clooney more-than Jake Gyllenhaal hue, and I’ve discovered a deep reserve of wisdom and clarity which only comes with time and patience. My clothing now fits perfectly, I am able to grow a beard within a week, and I always know what time it is thanks to my mature, Tag-Hauer watch, which I intend to pass down to my first son, thus starting a rich tradition which will carry on through the ages for the first born males in my family.

And it’s not just the fluffy stuff, either. Politics are now important to me since I’ve turned 30. I worry about social security, and I’m ready to fight for our American values and way of life. I’ve started buying the good cognac, and I’m eying a new set of clubs. I sip drinks rather than chug, and I’m always keen to dole out helpful advice to my younger, unmarried, and less experienced friends. I’m looking forward to mentoring a young businessman, and perhaps connecting with a Little Brother that I can sponsor and spend time with.

As a 30-year-old man, I’ve come to appreciate the finer things, learned to spend time on the details, and always own my mistakes. I look forward to an ever-expanding, unyielding vista of experience over my next 30 years, which will undoubtedly lead me to another, more astounding set of revelations about life and love — revelations which I plan on sharing as loudly and often as possible.