J.J. Goodman: Writings, Musings and More

[Days later – Caitlin grabs phone and types….] Caitlin: Hey *pause* C:     So, 2 gnus walk into a bar… Josh: *YAWN* Seriously? 2:37 am and you start with 2 gnus walk into a bar? C:     Yup. So 2 gnus walk into a bar. Bartender says to one of them what's gnu with    you? J:      Oh bloody hell… C:     …and the other gnu says hey! I'm not with him, he's with me! Ha! Get it?? J:      Please don't ever reproduce.  C:     Come on! That was funny!! J:      Is that what that was? C:     Grrrrr… J:      *gigglesnort* C:     So… J:      So, what? C:     You're kidding, right? J:      What??? C:     You said you l...

Have you ever been humbled? And I'm not talking about that awkward moment when, in the middle of an argument over when Down Under was released in the US, you realize that it was in fact released in the summer of '82 and not '81 as you had been vehemently claiming. And I'm certainly not talking about that moment when you're standing at the urinal and happen to accidently let your eyes wander and immediately determine that the guy next must be a freak of nature for having such an enormous… *Ahem* No. not talking about that, because that's never happened. Ever. Ever ever ever. *Whistling* No, no, no… I'm talking about being truly humbled. As in having a feeling of insignificance, or otherwise feeling unworthy of that which has been bestowed upon you. That feeling of…oh for the love of sweet bejeebus, STOP THINKING ABOUT WIENERS. I'm trying to be serious here! You know who you are. (Can I get back to it now? pleaseandthankyou.) I'm talking about t...

One can find inspiration in the smallest of places.... *** It's a story that's been told a thousand times over, whether by the likes of Jules Verne or Dr. Seuss. New worlds, strange worlds, tiny words existing on a dimension different from our own. To some extent, there is truth to the notion. Deep within the sea, or hidden beneath layers of lush greenery in the Brazilian rain forests lie microcosms of life we've not yet discovered. While Nash appreciated the science, he never could quite believe that Horton ever really heard a Who.  Nashville Roberts, named for the city in which he was conceived, had always been a skeptic. Born of the unlikely marriage between a hippie mother and Air Force pilot father, Nashville never found a place, or personality, in which he felt comfortable. Incredibly bright, Nashville breezed through high school, college, and two master's programs, one in philosophy and one in biology. He had toyed with the idea of getting his PhD, but c...

Josh:     Pssssst Caitlin: What? J:           Nuthin. I'm bored        C:        Do you know what time it is??? J:           Yes. Why? C:         This is payback for the other night, isn't it? J:           *snicker* C:         I hate you. J:          No you don't. C:         What do you want Josh? J:           A Ferrari, a date with Olivia Wilde, maybe some Cheetos… *pause* C:         You took an Ambien before texting me, didn't you? J:           Maybe… C:     ...

There are a great number of my friends who, like me, live a woeful life of insomnia. Many times we will find each other online late at night (or early morning) and have odd, inane, over-the-counter-medication-induced conversations. These are the kind of conversations that will cause you to say, after re-reading them in a more coherent state (like, say, New Hampshire... but certainly not Colorado, maaaaaaan, after the law they recently passed....), "What. The... Who the hell is Princess Persnickety Pants and why did I claim to be her Overlord Lover from Planet Stallion?" (Ok, fine, maybe they only cause me to say that... and for the record, Princess Persnickety Pants is quite the catch.)   Did I lose you already? In answer to that question which you are now asking yourself aloud (after which, also aloud, you will ask yourself why you're talking to your computer and then blame it on the Mt. Dew), No, I did not get much sleep last night. Next question: Poi...

He stood there for a moment, unable to believe where he was. "You're kidding, right?" he said as he turned to his host. "No, sir. You must choose: Door number one, door number two, or door number three." "Who are you supposed to be, Monty freakin' Hall?" His host smiled, but did not reply. Turning back towards the doors he confirmed that there were indeed three: One blue, one red, and one green. Aside from the door in which he had entered, far at the other end of the expansive warehouse, there was no sign of any other ingress or egress besides the three doors in front of which he now stood. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and wondered how he had gotten himself into this predicament in the first place. Sadly, he knew exactly how he'd gotten there. Just an hour earlier he had arrived at the offices of USS, United Shipping Services, for the first job interview he'd earned in the last four months. Previously, he had been am...

Here I stand on the precipice of forty, a little over two weeks until I have a different number in front of my age for the first time in a decade. Honestly, it’s not so much the number that gets me, but rather the chaotic cacophony of circumstances in which I find myself yet again, in perfect, coincidental harmony with a milestone birthday. I am a writer, and though I profess to be neither a great writer nor even a good one, I am a writer nonetheless. When it comes to my life, however, my actual, physical existence, there are some things that I couldn’t conjure up even on the most heavily Ambien induced evenings. So here I stand, amidst my life in transition, helpless to slow or stall the forces that swirl around me in a tempest of uncertainty. I cannot say that it is a good feeling by any means. At the same time, though, uncertainty brings excitement, surprise, and anticipation. It is times like these, these poignant pinpoints in our personal histories, when the involuntary refle...

They say you should expect the unexpected. Ok, sure. Wait…. No! I have a few questions to ask first. Numero Uno: Who are “they” and, numero uno, subnumero little a: Why should I listen to what “they” say in the first place? I’m picturing a bunch of skinny white men wearing white, short-sleeve dress shirts, skinny black ties and horn-rimmed glasses, all of whom have been locked in a fallout shelter beneath some government building since 1963. Their sole purpose in life is to “say” things. Imagine the scene: [Scene: Dingy basement conference room with long, formica-topped table worn with time occupying the room’s center. Around it are seated the “They-Sayers,” silently. The air is filled with stale cigarette smoke. Suddenly, They-Sayer Six speaks.] They-Sayer Six: “I got it! You should expect the unexpected.” Other They-Sayers: “Ooooooo, that’s a good one.” They-Sayer Eleven: “Wait, who is ‘you’ anyway?” [Other They-Sayers look around nervously.] They-Sayer Six: ...