What the? Where have you been? Well my friends (all ten who are reading) I'm glad you asked. I just returned from the NHL All Star game in Dallas. Who? What? When? Well, if you'll just calm down I will tell you…what, you were never freaking out? Merely reading this blog because it's either this or addictinggames.com and you've already abolished your high score? Well, interested or not, I'm going to tell you about it.

Where to begin? Oh I know, how about the Bears going to the Super Bowl!!!(Sorry, it has nothing to so with hockey, but I'm pumped…if you couldn't tell by the exclamation points…which clearly are a symbol of shear excitement)

Mascots. 13 of us. Ranging form ages 23( me…until tomorrow. That's right tomorrow's my birthday. What? You forgot? It's ok, just make up for it by sending cash) to 46. No that is not a typo. You read correctly. 46. There's a 46-year-old mascot? Yes. Is he married? Yes. Does he have children? Yes. Three, one of which is 19 years old (old enough to be a collegiate mascot I might add). Why am I telling you this? Because my life was put into perspective this past week.

I dress up in a furry outfit for a living. I hug children, throw out t-shirts, and do the chicken dance, all for the amusement of hockey fans in the state of New Jersey. "Dance Monkey boy, dance!" I will. How long master, how long? "Entertain us monkey boy!" I shall. At the expense of my self-dignity. "Josh, get it together. What are you saying?" Well, what I'm saying is this: Being a mascot isn't all that bad. Does it get hot? Yes. Do people need to know how to work their cameras before asking to take a picture? Yes. Are camera phones the worst invention for a mascot because now anyone and everyone has access to a camera including k-5th graders? Yes. Do I smile under the costume while taking a picture, even though no one can see my face? Absolutely. But if I continue to be a mascot will my life progress? No. Will I one day climb the corporate mascot ladder? No. Will I be proud to tell my children that daddy has to go to work, and then grab my mascot head and balloon animals? No. Do I want to send my kids through college off of money earned by doing the chicken dance? I hope not.

However, if my acting career doesn't pay off (I mean not that I'm unsuccessful, or a rising star. Believe you me, I am one hot commodity. How else could you explain the thousands of fans on joshlay.com, or the multitudes lined outside my Harlem home demanding autographs…what? You haven't seen them? Well it's cold so they must have left) I will be 46. And like a tidal wave crashing against the shore, so will the reality of what my life has become. A mascot. My acting dreams? Gone. My ambitions? Vanished. My pride? Deteriorated to nothing. With my aches and pains (yes even though mascots goof around, it is physically demanding…which is why I am at the apex of physical fitness, and my body is chiseled steel. Well, maybe not steel but more like balsa wood) I will drag myself to work and throw out t-shirts with my anemic arm. My life? A children's marketing scheme. My tombstone? Here lies Joshie ( I would imagine my mom putting that on there) a man to few, a mascot to many. ( SFX: rustling of  trees as the wind blows. Zoom Out: to see a lone tombstone under a weeping willow with no one in sight, but a gimp sheep who's lost it's way. Fade to black, where we see in bold white letters: THE END)

Depressed? I am. Encouraged? Perhaps. Why? Because you aren't a mascot. Or because in the core of your being a voice whispers, really faint, "i don't want to be a chicken, i don't want to be a duck, i want to shake my butt. clap. clap. clap. clap." Over and over, the chicken dance lyrics whisper to your soul like the aroma of a fresh apple pie to your senses, and without realizing, a warm feeling rushes over your body and you begin to smile and tap your foot. That my friends, gives me hope. That is why I am a mascot. Let's just hope that warm feeling isn't your bowels releasing waste from your body. In that case, i am pretty grossed out, and I would suggest using a toilet next time. Oh, you would rather use it in my elevator again? Feel free. And the cycle continues.