Birthdays. Full of surprises. I know mine was. Thanks to a certain girlfriend of mine( uhh, umm Jay) I was treated like a king. Dinner on Friday, dinner and a surprise party on Saturday (thank you everyone who attended, and special thanks to Laura and Jay for making it happen…for those who didn't come, shame on you…for those not invited, well i didn't plan it so there), and dinner on Sunday. Yes, I was treated like royalty all weekend. Also many thanks to all the calls and emails. Once again, if you didn't call or send an email, just send cash and it will be water under the bridge.

Wait a minute. I'm still waiting to see what New York got me. Come on New York, what'd you get me? You can tell me, it's your buddy Josh. Seriously, I won't tell anyone, what'd you get me? SURPRISE!!! Three hundred and sixty dollars worth of parking violations in two days. HappyBirthday!! 

"What?" "Are you serious?" Well my friend, is there urine and throw up in my broken elevator at any given time? Does a one-legged duck swim in a circle? Do birds fly? Absolutely. $360 big ones in the hole for the birthday boy. Welcome to manhood. Good thing the crime rate is so low in the city that the top priority is whether or not a silver Hyundai is going to make it out of the construction zone in the next 10min (that's right, had I gotten to my car 10min earlier, i would have avoided the whole thing…it was 7:30am mind you).

Woman, "Help! Rape!"

NYPD officer, "Sorry mam, I'm just gonna have to give this here Hyundai a ticket. Although he can't see the construction signs that say "tow away zone", I know about them so i'll ticket him for $115 then tow it outta here. That way he has to get it out of the pound for $185. Protecting the streets is a tough job." 

Yup. That's New York for ya. Excuse me crack addicts as I try to get into my building, and knock over a mound of cocaine. Or forgive me drug dealers for standing in your way, didn't see you there. Carry on. But heaven forbid you park in an undesignated parking slot. That's right. Easy mister. There are some heavy fines coming your way. Why do people use and sell drugs? Easy. Because parking is too dangerous. There's a much higher risk of getting caught by police parking in the city. At least with drugs, you know that no police will bother you.

Am i saying do drugs? Well, only if you want to be safe from the cops. Me however, I'm hardcore. I'm an outlaw. That's right a parking outlaw. I'm worse than Billy the Kid or Wyatt Earp. You think you're a good cop? Then just try and catch me. Anybody can bust regular ol' drug dealers, thieves, and murders, but the real test is catching that low income, punk whitekid from Tennessee, now he's dangerous.

Good job New York. Way to keep the streets safe. Oh you mean you let the man that stole my roommates purse at 7:00pm in the subway get away?  It's o.k, at least you busted the real crime in the city, and ticketed that car that was 20 minutes into the no parking time alotment. Yep. You got em.

So the lesson is simple. Don't drive in the city (oh you mean you have no choice because your company forced a car on you in order to get the job, which you will never be able to sale because it is a Hyundai and only Jersey moms drive Hyundai's). And don't have birthdays. Because New York will find that joy, and like a theif in the night, steal it away. So that's it. All you need to know…oh yeah, and do drugs. I mean why not? At least you won't be fined $360 bones. Ok, so you may commit crimes to get money for the drugs, ruin your life, destroy relationships with your loved ones, and loose everything you have froma harmful addiction…but hey, at least you'll be safe from the cops. Happy birthday.

 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.

Cocoa pebbles, Haribo gummies, pizza, hamburgers, marshmallows, coke and fruit snacks. A feast for kings and third graders alike. Well my friends I admit, I am that king. I am that third grader. Yes, when I go shopping, I buy all of the above items. You're probably thinking, "You're going to have a heart attack!" Well, you're probably right, which is why I decided to eat healthier as a New Year's resolution. What did I do? I called my nutrionist friend Val, and had a little heart to heart (get it, "heart to heart", and I'm talking about eating healthy which makes you have a healthier heart…comedy gold).

After about an hour and half of explaining my eating habits and her realizing that I am a medical phenom for still being able to pump blood to my vital organs, she advised me to a low fat/low sugar diet. O.k, cool. I'm a young professional; I can handle eating actual fruit instead of fruit snacks, oatmeal instead of Cocoa Pebbles, thin sliced turkey instead of hamburgers, pizza once every two weeks. Yeah, I can do this. Hey I'm disciplined. I played high school sports(on losing teams mind you). I am a mascot. I am mentally stable. I can do this.

So I headed to the store. I ended up walking 20 minutes in the cold to the closest "health nut" grocery store. For a moment I felt kinda cool. I mean really cool. Seriously I was so cool I lost all feeling in my extremities ( I thought it would be a good idea to be underdressed in the freezing cold, nothing says tough and disciplined like frost bite). 

So I enter the store. Lost. Yep, couldn't find a dang thing. Ooo, I know, let's make it really easy to find milk by having a separate "cold room" located where the average joe could never find it. Or we could even have two separate isles of bread, that way someone would grab the wrong bread because they wouldn't know there was another isle on the opposite side of the store. Better yet, let's over price our meat, and separate our brands of organic waffles from regular brands. Heck, while we're at it, let's overprice the waffles as well…in both isles. Still not lost and frustrated? Well fear not, because we are going to fill the store with as many people as possible, but we are going to make sure to have limited space. What's the matter? Can't get around the woman and baby staring at the organic cereal?

That's it! I was done. After I hit the apex of frustraton and despair, I reached for the one constant that would satisfy me. The one thing that had always been there for me. Cocoa Pebbles. Yes, my good friends Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble reminded me of all the good times we've had together. They told me that there were no such things as "unhealthy" food, but everything in moderation. They spoke wisdom about life and how no matter how healthy I try to be, I could always walk outside and get hit by a bus, or eaten by a dinosaur ( I realize there are not dinosaurs anymore, but hey, they're from prehistoric times and I understood what they meant).

After doing a little soul searching and meditating on some wise council from a few good prehistoric pals, I left the grocery store victorious. Complete with Cocoa Pebbles, Haribo gummie fish (I had never had this kind before), Eggo waffles, pop tarts, and pizza. Oh yeah, and some apples and oranges. I felt good. Real good, until I walked back home in the cold. Then I just felt cold. And hungry. Which is why I ate a nice 2-3 serving sized bowl of Cocca Pebbles when I got home. Thanks Fred and Barney. Yabadabadoo. Seriously.