Merry Christmas to everybody. I hope you all had a great time with your friends and families, like I did.
That's it. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Nothing funny here. Please move along.
12/25/2003
12/22/2003
I am now the proud owner of a set of massage balls.
It all started with a trip to the mall. This by itself is asking for trouble, I know. I went to the mall to pick up my new glasses, but it was also because I wanted to see overweight underage girls in Fubu jackets with their thongs sticking out of their pants (and on a side note; thongs should not stick out. In fact, if worn properly, they should be pretty well hidden. I'd say that's a good rule of thumb, people).
With ninja-like stealth I managed to sneak past the cel-phone kiosk and fly by the home security system people. I thought I had made it through the retail gauntlet when a young, attractive woman in casual clothing and a furry coat stepped in front of me. She said, “Can I show you something?” in a sexy accent that I couldn’t quite place (for the record, I can’t place any accent).
I must have looked dazed because she walked past me and said, “Follow me.” My brain told me to run away, but my penis told me to follow. Usually my penis is overruled, but lately he’s been making more and more decisions for me.
She stopped at a kiosk of oddly shaped instruments and exotic fragrances. She said, and I quote, “Turn around and take off your jacket.” I complied with less than the recommended state of caution. I began to sweat a little knowing that she just had to say the word and my pants were coming off.
Suddenly I had the sensation of more than a dozen fingers running up and down my back. This felt good for a moment, but then I thought, “Wait a second, there are definitely more than ten fingers back there.” I spun around to see what the hell was going on. The woman held what looked like a door handle with several straightened coat hangers sticking out of it.
Long story short, I decided the coat-hanger-back-scratcher would make a neat gift for someone on my list. I didn’t even know the price until she rang up my order. I won’t tell you how much it cost, but it was $25.
Paying waaay too much for what I had already decided to buy wasn't enough. She was certain that in addition to the coat hanger doorknob contraption I needed a set of plastic massage balls. The thought of buying them never once crossed my mind, but then, of course, she gave me a demonstration.
My pleas of "No thank you, I don't need them," "Sorry, I don't want them." and, "I said no!" turned to "Ooooh yea. Lower baby. Oooooh, that's what daddy needs."
To the credit of my financial fortitude, I was able to deny the massage balls even after the demonstration. She pleaded with me, giving me a look that said, "If you don't buy them I'll be forced to return to my homeland and marry a man I don't love when I could stay here and marry you." Still I said no, I just wanted the shitty coat hanger thing and that was it. Then she started dropping the price. First five dollars off. This wasn't much, given the original price. Then ten dollars off. Ten dollars off of "Fucking Expensive" is still "Expensive." Then fifteen. No no no! Just ring up my shitty doorknob and let me leave.
Any moment that I showed the slightest bit of hesitation she started another demonstration. It did little to change my mind, but I found that if I looked uncertain enough, she might be able to work out that kink in my lower back.
I forget how many different pitches we had gone through from there, but the final price of the massage balls was now $10 and she was about two steps away from throwing me on the floor and having sex with me to sell them. Why I didn't hold out for that I'll never know. Instead, I caved like a cheap condo and bought the massage balls for 10 dollars.
There isn’t anyone on my list who wants or needs massage balls. So I’ll just keep them, you know, as a reminder of the great times I had with massage ball girl.
It all started with a trip to the mall. This by itself is asking for trouble, I know. I went to the mall to pick up my new glasses, but it was also because I wanted to see overweight underage girls in Fubu jackets with their thongs sticking out of their pants (and on a side note; thongs should not stick out. In fact, if worn properly, they should be pretty well hidden. I'd say that's a good rule of thumb, people).
With ninja-like stealth I managed to sneak past the cel-phone kiosk and fly by the home security system people. I thought I had made it through the retail gauntlet when a young, attractive woman in casual clothing and a furry coat stepped in front of me. She said, “Can I show you something?” in a sexy accent that I couldn’t quite place (for the record, I can’t place any accent).
I must have looked dazed because she walked past me and said, “Follow me.” My brain told me to run away, but my penis told me to follow. Usually my penis is overruled, but lately he’s been making more and more decisions for me.
She stopped at a kiosk of oddly shaped instruments and exotic fragrances. She said, and I quote, “Turn around and take off your jacket.” I complied with less than the recommended state of caution. I began to sweat a little knowing that she just had to say the word and my pants were coming off.
Suddenly I had the sensation of more than a dozen fingers running up and down my back. This felt good for a moment, but then I thought, “Wait a second, there are definitely more than ten fingers back there.” I spun around to see what the hell was going on. The woman held what looked like a door handle with several straightened coat hangers sticking out of it.
Long story short, I decided the coat-hanger-back-scratcher would make a neat gift for someone on my list. I didn’t even know the price until she rang up my order. I won’t tell you how much it cost, but it was $25.
Paying waaay too much for what I had already decided to buy wasn't enough. She was certain that in addition to the coat hanger doorknob contraption I needed a set of plastic massage balls. The thought of buying them never once crossed my mind, but then, of course, she gave me a demonstration.
My pleas of "No thank you, I don't need them," "Sorry, I don't want them." and, "I said no!" turned to "Ooooh yea. Lower baby. Oooooh, that's what daddy needs."
To the credit of my financial fortitude, I was able to deny the massage balls even after the demonstration. She pleaded with me, giving me a look that said, "If you don't buy them I'll be forced to return to my homeland and marry a man I don't love when I could stay here and marry you." Still I said no, I just wanted the shitty coat hanger thing and that was it. Then she started dropping the price. First five dollars off. This wasn't much, given the original price. Then ten dollars off. Ten dollars off of "Fucking Expensive" is still "Expensive." Then fifteen. No no no! Just ring up my shitty doorknob and let me leave.
Any moment that I showed the slightest bit of hesitation she started another demonstration. It did little to change my mind, but I found that if I looked uncertain enough, she might be able to work out that kink in my lower back.
I forget how many different pitches we had gone through from there, but the final price of the massage balls was now $10 and she was about two steps away from throwing me on the floor and having sex with me to sell them. Why I didn't hold out for that I'll never know. Instead, I caved like a cheap condo and bought the massage balls for 10 dollars.
There isn’t anyone on my list who wants or needs massage balls. So I’ll just keep them, you know, as a reminder of the great times I had with massage ball girl.
12/18/2003
My apartment is vibrating. I suppose under certain conditions I wouldn't complain about it, but right now it's kind of freaking me out.
It started as a tingle in my feet, then I noticed that the water in the glass next to me was rippling like I was about to be chomped by a T-Rex. Various fixtures in the apartment began to rattle slightly with audible noise. I looked out the windows and saw no trucks or large vehicles. The vibrating dissapated after about a minute, but it happend again just now. I stepped outside. I couldn't feel or hear anything out there. I checked the basement, there don't appear to be any lose pipes or anything.
So this all leads to the $50 question: What the fuck are my upstairs neighbors doing?
It started as a tingle in my feet, then I noticed that the water in the glass next to me was rippling like I was about to be chomped by a T-Rex. Various fixtures in the apartment began to rattle slightly with audible noise. I looked out the windows and saw no trucks or large vehicles. The vibrating dissapated after about a minute, but it happend again just now. I stepped outside. I couldn't feel or hear anything out there. I checked the basement, there don't appear to be any lose pipes or anything.
So this all leads to the $50 question: What the fuck are my upstairs neighbors doing?
12/13/2003
Player: Good day, Fanedorf!
Fanedorf: Ditto!
Player: How fare you this day?
Fanedorf: Oh, you know, just chilling.
Player: Um… you should try speaking in character, or else use “/ooc”
Fanedorf: /ooc Oh, you know, just chilling.
Player: Hast thou seen any polar bears around? I hunt them for their pelts.
Fanedorf: Oh hell yea, there’s two of them just around that ridge. They just tore me a new one.
Player: Thank you. Best of luck on your journey (leaves)
Fanedorf: And make the bastards squeal a little before you skin them!
Fanedorf: Ditto!
Player: How fare you this day?
Fanedorf: Oh, you know, just chilling.
Player: Um… you should try speaking in character, or else use “/ooc”
Fanedorf: /ooc Oh, you know, just chilling.
Player: Hast thou seen any polar bears around? I hunt them for their pelts.
Fanedorf: Oh hell yea, there’s two of them just around that ridge. They just tore me a new one.
Player: Thank you. Best of luck on your journey (leaves)
Fanedorf: And make the bastards squeal a little before you skin them!
12/10/2003
Today I was suddenly overcome by the fear of being killed by a falling palm tree. This might be the kind of thing to happen during a tropical hurricane, but inside an office building in New England during the winter, it would be cosidered a freak accident. Unfortunately, freak accidents are just the kind of thing that keep happening to me.
To add to the decor of the office, my company has purchased two palm trees. Each one has been placed at the center of two circles of folding tables on the main floor. At these folding tables there is only one worker. Me. Whenever I'm not nervously scanning the branches for diseased monkies, I look at these hefty tree closest to me and think, "Damn, if this this thing fell over I'd be fucked."
It seems reasonable to think that the heavy pot at the base of each tree has been designed and tested to prevent these trees from falling. Of course, I was also under the impression that the wheel on my van had been designed and tested not to fall off.
I've revised my will.
To add to the decor of the office, my company has purchased two palm trees. Each one has been placed at the center of two circles of folding tables on the main floor. At these folding tables there is only one worker. Me. Whenever I'm not nervously scanning the branches for diseased monkies, I look at these hefty tree closest to me and think, "Damn, if this this thing fell over I'd be fucked."
It seems reasonable to think that the heavy pot at the base of each tree has been designed and tested to prevent these trees from falling. Of course, I was also under the impression that the wheel on my van had been designed and tested not to fall off.
I've revised my will.
12/08/2003
My first experience in Everquest was much like puberty. I was anti-social, awkward in my body, and, in the end, I was mauled to death by polar bears.
My friend was nice enough to let me use his account (well, one of his accounts) to try it out. So late Friday night I sat down and began to create my online persona. I’m certain that the art of character creation will forever elude me, mainly because it requires reading. So I constructed a fierce barbarian / shaman using such advanced statistical techniques as “Eeniee, meeniee, minee, mo.” At first I wanted to be a woman, not because I’m in touch with my feminine side, but because all the women of Everquest (except the dwarves) have an incredible rack. If I wasn’t going to be able to afford armor for quite some time, I might as well make the best of my time watching myself falling out of my skimpy bearskin bra. Then I realized that I didn’t want to be that creepy guy who plays as a woman, it’s just wrong on so many levels. Furthermore, I didn’t like the idea of all the men of Everquest eye-humping me all the time. I would just feel like a piece of meat.
Next was the name. I couldn’t think of anything particularly unique, nor was the random name generator coming up with anything that didn’t sound like a French side dish. I ended up heavily butchering one such randomly generated name, and thus “Fanedorf,” was born. At least, I think that’s his name. It might have been “Fondor.” No… definitely not Fondor. Fondue? No no no. I think it’s Fanedorf… yea.
So anyway, me and Fondue start in the Shaman’s Guild in Haltor (or was it Halan? I want to say Halitosis, but I know that’s not right). Right off the bat I know I’m screwed because I’m in a snowy mountain kingdom wearing nothing but boots and a kilt. Apparently temperature isn’t an issue in Everquest, which is fortunate because there would have been a lot of shrinkage. I wander around aimlessly for a bit, testing all my buttons and going through my meager inventory of milk, cookies (they looked like cookies) and a backpack. I also have a club, but it looks like a twig snapped from a tree. I assume it’s a weapon because there’s no command to use it as a toothpick.
Fonda and I decide that in order to build up our stats and get money we have to go kill something, just like in real life. So I follow my map to the town exit (Ye Exite). In all the previous demonstrations of the game, the town exit was a tunnel. Here up in Halter it was a ferry. I jump on board, but the platform doesn’t move. I step off and look at it. THEN it moves. It’s timed apparently. So I dash to catch it, miss it, and fall into the frozen lake. I sink like a big kilt-wearing stone. Fortunately I have the breath capacity of a whale, because I had to search through the help file to find out how I’m supposed to swim. In real life, you would have seen a burly, half-naked man, sitting on the bottom of the lake, reading his notebook.
I swim up and to the other side, where I exit the town and into the great snowy peaks. The primary population of this area is dead. Not dead, like on the ground, dead like walking, armed, and pissed. My first combat experience was borne of ignorance. I, the hero Funnel, had stopped one of the walking dead to ask for directions. The skeleton, we’ll call him George, drew his sword and proceeded to hand me my ass. I died, quickly. One of the larger complaints I’ve heard about Everquest is that when you die, you are transported back to the area just outside of town and then you must quickly travel back to the spot where you were killed to retrieve the items you had been carrying at the time. This was no problem for me, seeing as how I had only traveled about ten feet from the town before I was slaughtered. One minute I’m dead, and then POOF, there I am, ten feet away.
This went on for a few hours. I discovered that if you don’t bother the inhabitants, they usually won’t bother you. Except the polar bears. They always hate you and want you dead. I figure it’s starvation, but given the number of times they’ve killed me, they should be well fed by now.
I’ve already started to form an opinion of the game, but I’m going to keep trying it for a little while.
My friend was nice enough to let me use his account (well, one of his accounts) to try it out. So late Friday night I sat down and began to create my online persona. I’m certain that the art of character creation will forever elude me, mainly because it requires reading. So I constructed a fierce barbarian / shaman using such advanced statistical techniques as “Eeniee, meeniee, minee, mo.” At first I wanted to be a woman, not because I’m in touch with my feminine side, but because all the women of Everquest (except the dwarves) have an incredible rack. If I wasn’t going to be able to afford armor for quite some time, I might as well make the best of my time watching myself falling out of my skimpy bearskin bra. Then I realized that I didn’t want to be that creepy guy who plays as a woman, it’s just wrong on so many levels. Furthermore, I didn’t like the idea of all the men of Everquest eye-humping me all the time. I would just feel like a piece of meat.
Next was the name. I couldn’t think of anything particularly unique, nor was the random name generator coming up with anything that didn’t sound like a French side dish. I ended up heavily butchering one such randomly generated name, and thus “Fanedorf,” was born. At least, I think that’s his name. It might have been “Fondor.” No… definitely not Fondor. Fondue? No no no. I think it’s Fanedorf… yea.
So anyway, me and Fondue start in the Shaman’s Guild in Haltor (or was it Halan? I want to say Halitosis, but I know that’s not right). Right off the bat I know I’m screwed because I’m in a snowy mountain kingdom wearing nothing but boots and a kilt. Apparently temperature isn’t an issue in Everquest, which is fortunate because there would have been a lot of shrinkage. I wander around aimlessly for a bit, testing all my buttons and going through my meager inventory of milk, cookies (they looked like cookies) and a backpack. I also have a club, but it looks like a twig snapped from a tree. I assume it’s a weapon because there’s no command to use it as a toothpick.
Fonda and I decide that in order to build up our stats and get money we have to go kill something, just like in real life. So I follow my map to the town exit (Ye Exite). In all the previous demonstrations of the game, the town exit was a tunnel. Here up in Halter it was a ferry. I jump on board, but the platform doesn’t move. I step off and look at it. THEN it moves. It’s timed apparently. So I dash to catch it, miss it, and fall into the frozen lake. I sink like a big kilt-wearing stone. Fortunately I have the breath capacity of a whale, because I had to search through the help file to find out how I’m supposed to swim. In real life, you would have seen a burly, half-naked man, sitting on the bottom of the lake, reading his notebook.
I swim up and to the other side, where I exit the town and into the great snowy peaks. The primary population of this area is dead. Not dead, like on the ground, dead like walking, armed, and pissed. My first combat experience was borne of ignorance. I, the hero Funnel, had stopped one of the walking dead to ask for directions. The skeleton, we’ll call him George, drew his sword and proceeded to hand me my ass. I died, quickly. One of the larger complaints I’ve heard about Everquest is that when you die, you are transported back to the area just outside of town and then you must quickly travel back to the spot where you were killed to retrieve the items you had been carrying at the time. This was no problem for me, seeing as how I had only traveled about ten feet from the town before I was slaughtered. One minute I’m dead, and then POOF, there I am, ten feet away.
This went on for a few hours. I discovered that if you don’t bother the inhabitants, they usually won’t bother you. Except the polar bears. They always hate you and want you dead. I figure it’s starvation, but given the number of times they’ve killed me, they should be well fed by now.
I’ve already started to form an opinion of the game, but I’m going to keep trying it for a little while.
12/07/2003
I like snow because when you're shoveling for two hours and you pass out from exhaustion you always have a soft place to land. Other than that I hate snow.
It looks nice. You'll look out the window and see the giant flakes falling in the moonlight, covering everything in a smooth white blanket. It's so magical, so peaceful. So deceptive.
Then, the next morning, you try to wipe the foot of snow off your car and shovel it out of a five foot snow drift so you can try to move it into the street which is covered in packed snow left behind by the snow plow that left a four foot snow mound at the end of your driveway blocking you from getting out anyway.
Snow can just blow me.
It looks nice. You'll look out the window and see the giant flakes falling in the moonlight, covering everything in a smooth white blanket. It's so magical, so peaceful. So deceptive.
Then, the next morning, you try to wipe the foot of snow off your car and shovel it out of a five foot snow drift so you can try to move it into the street which is covered in packed snow left behind by the snow plow that left a four foot snow mound at the end of your driveway blocking you from getting out anyway.
Snow can just blow me.
12/06/2003
Today I got new glasses. Actually, today I bought new glasses. The Russian woman with the comically thick accent made it very clear that there would be not "receiving" of glasses until the middle of next week. Quality crafted eyeglasses in about a week. That's what I get for getting an eye exam in the mall.
This is particularly distressing because my former glasses have come apart in a very special way. A way that cannot be repaired by any normal glass... smith... Anyway, it is a flaw that originated at the very begining of the glasses design process when no one thought to ask, "Well, what if this flimsy hinge breaks?" Or, if the question was asked, the response was, "Well, you're fucked. But we're going to make them anyway."
For the record, this is the second time this has happened. Right when I first got this particular pair of glasses the hinge on the right side popped off. "How did they fix it?" you ask. Well, they didn't. You've probably never noticed, but the earpiece on the right side of my head is completely different than the earpiece on the left. They replaced it with an earpiece they just happened to have left over. In retrospect, I should have asked for some of my money back, seeing as how I only have 65% of the frames I actually bought.
So I was browsing for new frames; very slowly, because I had to be no more than five inches away from to see any of them. The Russian lady handed me a pair which I liked quite a bit, but I kept looking anyway, just to see what my options were. Then she walked away to answer the phone and deal with a customer. When she rejoined me she chuckled and told me that, in her absence, I had been trying on children's frames. I had noticed they were small, but I thought it was a fashion preference.
Anyway, I bought the frames she gave me and found out it would take a few days to have them ready. She gave me a reciept and some Scotch tape to keep my old glasses together for the drive home. Man, I wish I could get contacts.
This is particularly distressing because my former glasses have come apart in a very special way. A way that cannot be repaired by any normal glass... smith... Anyway, it is a flaw that originated at the very begining of the glasses design process when no one thought to ask, "Well, what if this flimsy hinge breaks?" Or, if the question was asked, the response was, "Well, you're fucked. But we're going to make them anyway."
For the record, this is the second time this has happened. Right when I first got this particular pair of glasses the hinge on the right side popped off. "How did they fix it?" you ask. Well, they didn't. You've probably never noticed, but the earpiece on the right side of my head is completely different than the earpiece on the left. They replaced it with an earpiece they just happened to have left over. In retrospect, I should have asked for some of my money back, seeing as how I only have 65% of the frames I actually bought.
So I was browsing for new frames; very slowly, because I had to be no more than five inches away from to see any of them. The Russian lady handed me a pair which I liked quite a bit, but I kept looking anyway, just to see what my options were. Then she walked away to answer the phone and deal with a customer. When she rejoined me she chuckled and told me that, in her absence, I had been trying on children's frames. I had noticed they were small, but I thought it was a fashion preference.
Anyway, I bought the frames she gave me and found out it would take a few days to have them ready. She gave me a reciept and some Scotch tape to keep my old glasses together for the drive home. Man, I wish I could get contacts.
12/01/2003
I think I've managed to corelate my dreams about failing school with excessive paperwork during my waking hours.
I've had the same dream two nights in a row now - I've been doing well in school, but I oversleep EVERY morning and manage to miss my morning classes repeatedly, then graduation draws near, my grades are stellar, but I've been absent from Gym and Physics for FOUR MONTHS! I get a zero for those two classes and I wind up having to take a summer course. My parents are sooo pissed. Anyway, that's how the dream goes. Sometimes the classes vary, but the theme is the same. I've been out of school over a year and a half now and I still have nightmares about missing class. Damn you higher education!!!
Before bed on both nights I was busy trying to attack the mountain of bills, tax forms, sticky note reminders, and and computer manuals that has piled itself on my desk. I'm certain that's what's causing the dreams. I've got to make a point to take care of that stuff earlier in the evening, and not right before I go to bed. That should eliminate the school nightmares, and make room for the dream about the showgirls with peanut butter. Oh yea.
I've had the same dream two nights in a row now - I've been doing well in school, but I oversleep EVERY morning and manage to miss my morning classes repeatedly, then graduation draws near, my grades are stellar, but I've been absent from Gym and Physics for FOUR MONTHS! I get a zero for those two classes and I wind up having to take a summer course. My parents are sooo pissed. Anyway, that's how the dream goes. Sometimes the classes vary, but the theme is the same. I've been out of school over a year and a half now and I still have nightmares about missing class. Damn you higher education!!!
Before bed on both nights I was busy trying to attack the mountain of bills, tax forms, sticky note reminders, and and computer manuals that has piled itself on my desk. I'm certain that's what's causing the dreams. I've got to make a point to take care of that stuff earlier in the evening, and not right before I go to bed. That should eliminate the school nightmares, and make room for the dream about the showgirls with peanut butter. Oh yea.
11/23/2003
"I wish I could see myself as a great romantic figure. Someone to be admired... And respected... Loved? I'm aware enough to know what a far cry that wish is... I'm sick... I have to face that one simple fact. Something... is... very... very... wrong with me."
-Michael Allred "Madman"
Something is wrong with me too.
It's been happening for about two weeks, but I only just recently stopped and said, "What the hell is happening here?"
For starters, I'm getting forgetful. I've lived in this appartment for 10 months and I've only ever locked myself out once, about a month after I moved in... Now, in the past two weeks, I've locked myself out twice. The first time, two weeks ago, the landlord gave me an extra copy of my key. I put the spare key in my wallet because for some reason I've never locked myself out without my wallet. I've always had the spare van key in my wallet, which I then use to drive to the landlord's house and ask to borrow his key. Today I locked myself out without my keys or my wallet. I'm begining to suspect that if I had my spare key surgically implanted in my ass, soon I would somehow lock myself out without my ass.
And I forget why I'm in a room each time I enter it. This is really bad because I only have two rooms. It's not like I'm going up the stairs and down the hall. I walk the five feet from my bedroom to my kitchen and I can't remember why the hell I did it.
Secondly, my brain is turning off sooner than it usually does. It used to be that by the end of my work day I'd be getting tired and disorganized. You know, like from 4:30 to 5. It seemed acceptable, long day, running out of steam. Now it's happening around 3:00. I stare at my projects like I'm a veggetable. I pop open menus in Photoshop and then, after 30 seconds of looking, I realize I didn't really need anything from that menu.
And the creative block is horrible. Instead of brain storming I'm just getting a thick brain fog. I feel like I'm running into the same brick wall over and over. Not only can I not think outside the box, I've laid out a futon and decided that the box is a pretty cool place to be.
What the hell is wrong with me? Me loose brain?
-Michael Allred "Madman"
Something is wrong with me too.
It's been happening for about two weeks, but I only just recently stopped and said, "What the hell is happening here?"
For starters, I'm getting forgetful. I've lived in this appartment for 10 months and I've only ever locked myself out once, about a month after I moved in... Now, in the past two weeks, I've locked myself out twice. The first time, two weeks ago, the landlord gave me an extra copy of my key. I put the spare key in my wallet because for some reason I've never locked myself out without my wallet. I've always had the spare van key in my wallet, which I then use to drive to the landlord's house and ask to borrow his key. Today I locked myself out without my keys or my wallet. I'm begining to suspect that if I had my spare key surgically implanted in my ass, soon I would somehow lock myself out without my ass.
And I forget why I'm in a room each time I enter it. This is really bad because I only have two rooms. It's not like I'm going up the stairs and down the hall. I walk the five feet from my bedroom to my kitchen and I can't remember why the hell I did it.
Secondly, my brain is turning off sooner than it usually does. It used to be that by the end of my work day I'd be getting tired and disorganized. You know, like from 4:30 to 5. It seemed acceptable, long day, running out of steam. Now it's happening around 3:00. I stare at my projects like I'm a veggetable. I pop open menus in Photoshop and then, after 30 seconds of looking, I realize I didn't really need anything from that menu.
And the creative block is horrible. Instead of brain storming I'm just getting a thick brain fog. I feel like I'm running into the same brick wall over and over. Not only can I not think outside the box, I've laid out a futon and decided that the box is a pretty cool place to be.
What the hell is wrong with me? Me loose brain?
11/13/2003
Today at work I began to wonder if I was like the guest that just dosen't leave when the party is over.
The seed of doubt was sewn yesterday when a client stopped by. The Office Manager was showing him around our, admittedly, cool workplace. When they reached the folding table that I had been using as a desk, I was introduced as the "Semi Permanent Contractor." The client was actually the first one to point out, "Wow. Gotta love that title, eh?"
Yea, I thought, that is pretty shitty, isn't it. It didn't really sink in until today that the introduction might have been a bit tongue-in-cheek. Like, "And here's Jon. We hired him to design a program last year. The project has been over for a month or so now, but he just won't take a hint."
The seed of doubt was sewn yesterday when a client stopped by. The Office Manager was showing him around our, admittedly, cool workplace. When they reached the folding table that I had been using as a desk, I was introduced as the "Semi Permanent Contractor." The client was actually the first one to point out, "Wow. Gotta love that title, eh?"
Yea, I thought, that is pretty shitty, isn't it. It didn't really sink in until today that the introduction might have been a bit tongue-in-cheek. Like, "And here's Jon. We hired him to design a program last year. The project has been over for a month or so now, but he just won't take a hint."
11/11/2003
I've managed to thwart another of my van's attempts to assassinate me.
I've said before that I know next to nothing about auto mechanics, so what little I do know is from first hand experience and, usually, catastrophic failures. Yesterday, for example, I learned that if the brakes on the van go out and you press the pedal hard enough, the emergency brakes will kick in. This is not written in the manual. I can add this tidbit to the short list of things I know about my van; like reasons the engine won't start and signs that the fucking wheel is about to fall off.
Fortunately, the brake had been acting "spongy" that afternoon and I had the common sense to be driving slowly and trying to get back to my house via side roads. Of course, after I finally managed to park in my driveway, I decided that I'd have to have the bitch towed to the garage.
I'm a little too tired to go into details right now, but when we were reunited again it was very awkward. There was a long silence as I strugled to voice my concerns about the way it's been behaving. The van just stared at me. It might have been my imagination, but I could swear I saw resentment in those headlights; like it had gone to a lot of trouble, and yet I was still alive.
I fear what might happen next. First the wheel, now the brakes. If the van gets more daring I believe the next "accident," will be something more severe. I must keep a close eye on it.
I've said before that I know next to nothing about auto mechanics, so what little I do know is from first hand experience and, usually, catastrophic failures. Yesterday, for example, I learned that if the brakes on the van go out and you press the pedal hard enough, the emergency brakes will kick in. This is not written in the manual. I can add this tidbit to the short list of things I know about my van; like reasons the engine won't start and signs that the fucking wheel is about to fall off.
Fortunately, the brake had been acting "spongy" that afternoon and I had the common sense to be driving slowly and trying to get back to my house via side roads. Of course, after I finally managed to park in my driveway, I decided that I'd have to have the bitch towed to the garage.
I'm a little too tired to go into details right now, but when we were reunited again it was very awkward. There was a long silence as I strugled to voice my concerns about the way it's been behaving. The van just stared at me. It might have been my imagination, but I could swear I saw resentment in those headlights; like it had gone to a lot of trouble, and yet I was still alive.
I fear what might happen next. First the wheel, now the brakes. If the van gets more daring I believe the next "accident," will be something more severe. I must keep a close eye on it.
11/08/2003
11/06/2003
Last time I was at Blockbuster I bought a copy of "28 Days Later." Anyone will tell you that buying movies at Blockbuster is incredibly stupid. Because of some bizarre space-time flux, movies at Blockbuster cost more than they do anywhere else on earth. The fact that this movie was on sale did not help. I shelled out my $22.50 (plus tax) simply because I just happend to be there. A few days later I found myself at Best Buy and, not to my surprise, the actual price of 28 Days Later was $19.99. I proceeded to kick myself. Today I got my usual junk mail from Hotmail.com (I actually signed up for the DVD newsletter), and I was offered a copy of 28 Days Later for $18.50. I kicked myself even harder. I suppose a week from now the price will keep dropping and it'll be on sale for $17.00. If anyone in America want's to save money on DVD's, let me know and I'll buy it first.
11/02/2003
A funny thing happened on Halloween night.
In order to cater to the bloodthirsty trick or treaters WHO NEARLY KNOCKED DOWN MY DOOR, I left a pan on the front porch, filled it with Snickers, Milky Ways, and Three Muskateers and taped a sign to it that said, "Please Just Two Each!"
Shortly thereafter I went out with my friend to a pseudo Halloween party. When we came back, about four hours later, I had no delusion that the pan would even be there, much less the candy in it. To my shock and awe the pan was still there, and it HAD MORE CANDY THAN WHEN I LEFT IT! That was fucking spooky.
The volume was the same, but in addition to the candy bars there were now M & Ms, Almond Joys, and Kit Kats. I tried to wrap my mind around it. My first thought was that maybe some of the trick or treaters had misread the sign and left two of THEIR candies. For the few moments I had accepted this explaination I was convinced that the children of Waltham were all morons. Then my friend guessed aloud that my neighbors had added to the pot, so to speak.
Oh, yea, like that makes any sense.
In order to cater to the bloodthirsty trick or treaters WHO NEARLY KNOCKED DOWN MY DOOR, I left a pan on the front porch, filled it with Snickers, Milky Ways, and Three Muskateers and taped a sign to it that said, "Please Just Two Each!"
Shortly thereafter I went out with my friend to a pseudo Halloween party. When we came back, about four hours later, I had no delusion that the pan would even be there, much less the candy in it. To my shock and awe the pan was still there, and it HAD MORE CANDY THAN WHEN I LEFT IT! That was fucking spooky.
The volume was the same, but in addition to the candy bars there were now M & Ms, Almond Joys, and Kit Kats. I tried to wrap my mind around it. My first thought was that maybe some of the trick or treaters had misread the sign and left two of THEIR candies. For the few moments I had accepted this explaination I was convinced that the children of Waltham were all morons. Then my friend guessed aloud that my neighbors had added to the pot, so to speak.
Oh, yea, like that makes any sense.
10/26/2003
Yea, so my bed collapsed. Not the whole thing, just the part I had propped up with the lumber that I wound up buying from Home Depot.
The head of the bed had been elevated for two days and I wasn’t feeling any better in the mornings. I had decided I would leave it like it was for a few more days, and then take it down if I still didn’t feel any better in that time, because frankly, it looked retarded.
In the middle of the second day I sat down and leaned back to watch some TV and suddenly THUMP. The whole bed jolted and I was back in a 90 degree sitting position. Shortly, my downstairs neighbor knocked on my door to ask if everything was OK. It had been an extremely loud thump. I assured her that everything was OK, and in trying to explain what had happened, I realized how incredibly stupid the whole idea was.
Today I might try to reassemble the whole contraption, this time using some duct tape or something. I only hesitate because I dread the thought of having to explain it twice.
The head of the bed had been elevated for two days and I wasn’t feeling any better in the mornings. I had decided I would leave it like it was for a few more days, and then take it down if I still didn’t feel any better in that time, because frankly, it looked retarded.
In the middle of the second day I sat down and leaned back to watch some TV and suddenly THUMP. The whole bed jolted and I was back in a 90 degree sitting position. Shortly, my downstairs neighbor knocked on my door to ask if everything was OK. It had been an extremely loud thump. I assured her that everything was OK, and in trying to explain what had happened, I realized how incredibly stupid the whole idea was.
Today I might try to reassemble the whole contraption, this time using some duct tape or something. I only hesitate because I dread the thought of having to explain it twice.
10/23/2003
At the advice of my doctor, I went out in search of a few bricks to prop up the head of my bed, thus reducing the amount of acid reflux from my stomach to my esophagus whilst I sleep. This was from a cadre of home remedies that included such winners as “Don’t drink fluids during meals,” and “Don’t bend over.”
I found myself lost in Home Depot and, despite my better judgement, I decided to ask one of the employees for help. I said, “Excuse me, I’m wondering where I can get, like, six bricks.” I can’t say I was surprised when he immediately asked, “What do you need just six bricks for?” At that moment I could have chosen to be serious tell him I was propping up my bed, but for some reason I didn’t want to. Instead, I chose to be a smart-ass as I looked him in the eye and said, “I’m building a very small wall.”
I knew from past experience that the Home Depot employees were going to treat me like a moron anyway, I just figured I’d play the game.
I should mention that I once applied to be an employee at Home Depot. I won’t say I was desperate for work, Home Depot is not the end of the line. But after you’ve earned a BFA, you hope for bigger and better things.
Needless to say I didn’t get the job. I failed the written test, which is pretty god damned funny. I was being honest and I guess I just wasn’t enough of a customer’s bitch. I chose -
C: I am sometimes annoyed when customers insult me.
Instead of -
D: I love being insulted by customers. Thank you sir, may I have another?
The other questions where like this:
Home Depot Employment Test
2. If a customer is soliciting you for help, do you:
a. refer him to another isle
b. drown out the sound of his complaining by using the power saw
c. kill him, using the power saw
d. kill yourself, using the power saw
3. A customer needs only a small piece of lumber that could easily be cut from one of the larger pieces. Do you:
a. refer him to another isle
b. refer him to your manager
c. tell him no, and ask him what kind of dumb-ass question was that
d, tell him about the briefing you were given during training; when they told you the lumber was taken from a magical forest and every time you cut it, God kills a kitten.
State and Federal laws require that all potential employees participate in a mandatory drug test.
Please answer truthfully:
Are you high right now?
a. Yes
b. No
This concludes the mandatory drug test.
(Shout out to Greg, the only intelligent, approchable person that Home Depot ever hired).
I found myself lost in Home Depot and, despite my better judgement, I decided to ask one of the employees for help. I said, “Excuse me, I’m wondering where I can get, like, six bricks.” I can’t say I was surprised when he immediately asked, “What do you need just six bricks for?” At that moment I could have chosen to be serious tell him I was propping up my bed, but for some reason I didn’t want to. Instead, I chose to be a smart-ass as I looked him in the eye and said, “I’m building a very small wall.”
I knew from past experience that the Home Depot employees were going to treat me like a moron anyway, I just figured I’d play the game.
I should mention that I once applied to be an employee at Home Depot. I won’t say I was desperate for work, Home Depot is not the end of the line. But after you’ve earned a BFA, you hope for bigger and better things.
Needless to say I didn’t get the job. I failed the written test, which is pretty god damned funny. I was being honest and I guess I just wasn’t enough of a customer’s bitch. I chose -
C: I am sometimes annoyed when customers insult me.
Instead of -
D: I love being insulted by customers. Thank you sir, may I have another?
The other questions where like this:
Home Depot Employment Test
2. If a customer is soliciting you for help, do you:
a. refer him to another isle
b. drown out the sound of his complaining by using the power saw
c. kill him, using the power saw
d. kill yourself, using the power saw
3. A customer needs only a small piece of lumber that could easily be cut from one of the larger pieces. Do you:
a. refer him to another isle
b. refer him to your manager
c. tell him no, and ask him what kind of dumb-ass question was that
d, tell him about the briefing you were given during training; when they told you the lumber was taken from a magical forest and every time you cut it, God kills a kitten.
State and Federal laws require that all potential employees participate in a mandatory drug test.
Please answer truthfully:
Are you high right now?
a. Yes
b. No
This concludes the mandatory drug test.
(Shout out to Greg, the only intelligent, approchable person that Home Depot ever hired).
10/17/2003
I had a job interview this week. For those of you who don’t remember what it’s like to play the field, a job interview is where you gather up your portfolio, dress up, go to the potential employer’s office and, essentially, be their bitch for a half hour or so.
The place I interviewed seemed cool though. The one thing that caught me off guard was the size of the office. It was roughly the size of my car. I had expected bigger because in the SIX times I had tried to call the CEO, he had never once answered. This led me to believe that he was out in the fields, or walking around the factory floor amongst the people.
That minor quibble aside, it had a friendly atmosphere and I got the impression that it was the kind of place I wouldn’t mind working in. I shall now cross my fingers and kiss my graphic design voodoo doll.
The place I interviewed seemed cool though. The one thing that caught me off guard was the size of the office. It was roughly the size of my car. I had expected bigger because in the SIX times I had tried to call the CEO, he had never once answered. This led me to believe that he was out in the fields, or walking around the factory floor amongst the people.
That minor quibble aside, it had a friendly atmosphere and I got the impression that it was the kind of place I wouldn’t mind working in. I shall now cross my fingers and kiss my graphic design voodoo doll.
10/05/2003
Laundry Day
When cleaning out my dresser for my semi annual fall laundry drive, I discovered that I owned five different kinds of deodorant. And the strange thing was that there were no duplicates. It wasn’t as if I simply bought my regular brand and forgot about it when I got another; there were five different kinds of odor and wetness protection in my drawer. If I didn’t live by myself I’d think that someone was trying to send me a message.
My usual laundry place was over-crowded today so was forced to seek another establishment for my laundering needs. I found a place called Crystal Cleansers. I already had issues with the name. Why were they “Cleansers,” and not, “Cleaners?” Cleansers makes me think of some firebrand preacher standing on a stage yelling, “Begone you devil coffee stain!”
This place took “coin-operated,” to a whole new level. Beside the coin operated washing machines where the coin operated dryers which were in turn next to the coin operated vending machine (no dollar slot) and the pay phone which sat under the coin operated television (it had a timer). This, ladies and gentlemen, is the future of commerce.
The machines were horribly expensive too. The three single-load washers were all taken (all by the same person I might add), and the next step up was the “double load,” washer (roughly the size of my shoe), or the “triple load,” washer (roughly the size of my car). The double load cost 9 quarters to operate. The triple load cost 16 quarters to operate. I came in there with so many quarters in my pocket I had to walk with a limp, and by the time I started using the dryers I was smoothing out crumpled dollar bills to use in the change machine (which apparently doesn’t accept American currency).
And the children. Oh lord the children. They ran around, screaming and yelling things in a variety of different languages. I’ve honestly never wanted to drop kick a child before today. They ran free, free of the bonds of parental supervision as their parents busied themselves watching the dryer spin. One such toddler was running laps around the place. Every time he reached where I was sitting he would attempt to turn, which was a maneuver his young, newly discovered legs couldn’t handle, and he landed face down on the tiles. “SMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” It was ear splitting. Eventually his older brother would come, pick him up, and bring him over to his mother. I didn’t pay any attention after that, but no sooner do I start reading my book again than I hear “SMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Little Mario Andretti fell again. It went on like this for an hour.
I was running two dryers, one for regular clothes and one for woolens. They both finished at roughly the same time, but the woolens were not particularly dry. I only hesitated a moment to consider putting more quarters in when I heard “SMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” again and I just decided I’d hang my sweaters up when I got home.
When cleaning out my dresser for my semi annual fall laundry drive, I discovered that I owned five different kinds of deodorant. And the strange thing was that there were no duplicates. It wasn’t as if I simply bought my regular brand and forgot about it when I got another; there were five different kinds of odor and wetness protection in my drawer. If I didn’t live by myself I’d think that someone was trying to send me a message.
My usual laundry place was over-crowded today so was forced to seek another establishment for my laundering needs. I found a place called Crystal Cleansers. I already had issues with the name. Why were they “Cleansers,” and not, “Cleaners?” Cleansers makes me think of some firebrand preacher standing on a stage yelling, “Begone you devil coffee stain!”
This place took “coin-operated,” to a whole new level. Beside the coin operated washing machines where the coin operated dryers which were in turn next to the coin operated vending machine (no dollar slot) and the pay phone which sat under the coin operated television (it had a timer). This, ladies and gentlemen, is the future of commerce.
The machines were horribly expensive too. The three single-load washers were all taken (all by the same person I might add), and the next step up was the “double load,” washer (roughly the size of my shoe), or the “triple load,” washer (roughly the size of my car). The double load cost 9 quarters to operate. The triple load cost 16 quarters to operate. I came in there with so many quarters in my pocket I had to walk with a limp, and by the time I started using the dryers I was smoothing out crumpled dollar bills to use in the change machine (which apparently doesn’t accept American currency).
And the children. Oh lord the children. They ran around, screaming and yelling things in a variety of different languages. I’ve honestly never wanted to drop kick a child before today. They ran free, free of the bonds of parental supervision as their parents busied themselves watching the dryer spin. One such toddler was running laps around the place. Every time he reached where I was sitting he would attempt to turn, which was a maneuver his young, newly discovered legs couldn’t handle, and he landed face down on the tiles. “SMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” It was ear splitting. Eventually his older brother would come, pick him up, and bring him over to his mother. I didn’t pay any attention after that, but no sooner do I start reading my book again than I hear “SMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Little Mario Andretti fell again. It went on like this for an hour.
I was running two dryers, one for regular clothes and one for woolens. They both finished at roughly the same time, but the woolens were not particularly dry. I only hesitated a moment to consider putting more quarters in when I heard “SMACK! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” again and I just decided I’d hang my sweaters up when I got home.
9/22/2003
Should smoke detectors have radioactive material in them? The one above my bed does and that makes me a little nervous. I had to rub all three of my eyes to make sure I was reading it correctly.
It was 7:30AM on a Sunday morning and I was standing on my bed, in my underwear, holding my smoke alarm in one hand, wires still attached to the ceiling, and hitting it with the palm of my other hand. Anyone who didn't already think I was a loon needed only to look in my window at that moment.
The power had gone out sometime during the night. I woke up to the sound of my smoke alarm. It wasn't going off, but emitting some awful dying moan. I looked at my watch and gave my own moan. It was far too early for this shit.
I poked my head into the hallway and couldn't hear any sounds coming from the other apartments. I stood up on my bed and unlatched the smoke alarm from the ceiling. A cloud of dust fell onto my sheets with an audible thud. The wires seemed to go directly into the unit. There was no visible plug or battery. I tried the smooth out the ancient parchment that had once been its operating instructions stuck to the back. It was wrinkled and stained now, like a pirate map. In big bold letters it said, "Models that do not contain a battery will not function during a power outage." This unit had no battery but it was still sort of functioning. Well, not so much functioning as giving up the will to live.
That's when I noticed the second paragraph that said, "This unit contains radioactive material. Handle with care." This set off several alarms in my head. It never even crossed my mind that harmless radioactive material may just be part of every smoke detector. I tried to reason that they wouldn’t be stupid enough to equip a home with a glowing isotope strapped to the ceiling. But, for the record, this is an old building; it was built during a time when government trucks rolled down the streets spraying children with DDT.
The radioactive material was Americium. This, in my opinion, is one of the few elements, including Californium and Einsteinium, which must get teased endlessly by all the other elements on the periodic table. It kind of put my mind at ease. It seemed unlikely that I could be harmed by an element that wasn’t even recognized by the French.
Anyway, the power outages continued on and off into the night. As a testament to my lack of emergency preparedness I had only one flashlight and several Yankee Candles from my mother. That meant that if I wanted any kind of illumination I had to endure the smell of apples rolling in on an ocean breeze and falling into a great big sack of potpourri while being beaten by pine branches. After about an hour of this I became light headed and started hallucinating that I was in Candy Land.
It was 7:30AM on a Sunday morning and I was standing on my bed, in my underwear, holding my smoke alarm in one hand, wires still attached to the ceiling, and hitting it with the palm of my other hand. Anyone who didn't already think I was a loon needed only to look in my window at that moment.
The power had gone out sometime during the night. I woke up to the sound of my smoke alarm. It wasn't going off, but emitting some awful dying moan. I looked at my watch and gave my own moan. It was far too early for this shit.
I poked my head into the hallway and couldn't hear any sounds coming from the other apartments. I stood up on my bed and unlatched the smoke alarm from the ceiling. A cloud of dust fell onto my sheets with an audible thud. The wires seemed to go directly into the unit. There was no visible plug or battery. I tried the smooth out the ancient parchment that had once been its operating instructions stuck to the back. It was wrinkled and stained now, like a pirate map. In big bold letters it said, "Models that do not contain a battery will not function during a power outage." This unit had no battery but it was still sort of functioning. Well, not so much functioning as giving up the will to live.
That's when I noticed the second paragraph that said, "This unit contains radioactive material. Handle with care." This set off several alarms in my head. It never even crossed my mind that harmless radioactive material may just be part of every smoke detector. I tried to reason that they wouldn’t be stupid enough to equip a home with a glowing isotope strapped to the ceiling. But, for the record, this is an old building; it was built during a time when government trucks rolled down the streets spraying children with DDT.
The radioactive material was Americium. This, in my opinion, is one of the few elements, including Californium and Einsteinium, which must get teased endlessly by all the other elements on the periodic table. It kind of put my mind at ease. It seemed unlikely that I could be harmed by an element that wasn’t even recognized by the French.
Anyway, the power outages continued on and off into the night. As a testament to my lack of emergency preparedness I had only one flashlight and several Yankee Candles from my mother. That meant that if I wanted any kind of illumination I had to endure the smell of apples rolling in on an ocean breeze and falling into a great big sack of potpourri while being beaten by pine branches. After about an hour of this I became light headed and started hallucinating that I was in Candy Land.
9/17/2003
9/12/2003
The thought hadn't occurred to me that I had cheated death until I was back in my van driving on the highway.
I had finally gotten the damned thing back from the shop after nearly a full week. I may say nasty things about the van, but if you ever try to separate us we'll both slowly die like little Elliot and E.T. I was in terrible shape by the time the guy at the garage called me and told me that the parts had finally arrived from the magical Land of Narnia and I could now come pick up my newly repaired vehicle. I had been riding my bike to work all week and this exciting news caused my already weary legs to buckle and I fell into a satisfied heap on the floor.
Once I had checked in and paid the bill I was told I could find the van in the back parking lot. I walked around back and gave my van a mean look, like I was a parent who had been called away from work because my child had set fire to his desk and was being held in the principal's office until I came to pick him up. I almost said, "I hope you're happy. Just wait until your mother finds out about this."
But the sad truth was that I couldn't stay mad at my van. I was relieved that I no longer had to ride my bike to work; although I promised myself I would continue doing it because it was, "Good for me." Being able to drive again made me realize how much I had missed it. I proceeded to do the chores I had been putting off (grocery shopping, trip to the Target across town) as well as a thorough test drive over Waltham's bumpiest roads (which is to say I avoided the single road in Waltham that wasn't bumpy). It was like we were old lovers, skipping through a flowery field hand in hand. Somewhere, someone was playing the song, "So Happy Together," (And it couldn't have been me because the radio in the van doesn't work either).
But tonight I made my way up I-95 and 93 like an old lady. I was shaken by the thought of the wheel falling off again while I was on the highway. Last time it was a side road, I was lucky. The odd tapping sound, no doubt related to the wheel falling off, had gone on for weeks. My wheel could have fallen off at any time, like doing 70 on the highway trying to stay ahead of the BMW crawling up my ass.
That's when I knew I had cheated death. The grim reaper sat next to me in the passenger seat tonight. I could feel his icy breath as he leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Next time you won't be so lu- WATCH OUT FOR THAT BUMP!! Ha ha, got ya!"
I had finally gotten the damned thing back from the shop after nearly a full week. I may say nasty things about the van, but if you ever try to separate us we'll both slowly die like little Elliot and E.T. I was in terrible shape by the time the guy at the garage called me and told me that the parts had finally arrived from the magical Land of Narnia and I could now come pick up my newly repaired vehicle. I had been riding my bike to work all week and this exciting news caused my already weary legs to buckle and I fell into a satisfied heap on the floor.
Once I had checked in and paid the bill I was told I could find the van in the back parking lot. I walked around back and gave my van a mean look, like I was a parent who had been called away from work because my child had set fire to his desk and was being held in the principal's office until I came to pick him up. I almost said, "I hope you're happy. Just wait until your mother finds out about this."
But the sad truth was that I couldn't stay mad at my van. I was relieved that I no longer had to ride my bike to work; although I promised myself I would continue doing it because it was, "Good for me." Being able to drive again made me realize how much I had missed it. I proceeded to do the chores I had been putting off (grocery shopping, trip to the Target across town) as well as a thorough test drive over Waltham's bumpiest roads (which is to say I avoided the single road in Waltham that wasn't bumpy). It was like we were old lovers, skipping through a flowery field hand in hand. Somewhere, someone was playing the song, "So Happy Together," (And it couldn't have been me because the radio in the van doesn't work either).
But tonight I made my way up I-95 and 93 like an old lady. I was shaken by the thought of the wheel falling off again while I was on the highway. Last time it was a side road, I was lucky. The odd tapping sound, no doubt related to the wheel falling off, had gone on for weeks. My wheel could have fallen off at any time, like doing 70 on the highway trying to stay ahead of the BMW crawling up my ass.
That's when I knew I had cheated death. The grim reaper sat next to me in the passenger seat tonight. I could feel his icy breath as he leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Next time you won't be so lu- WATCH OUT FOR THAT BUMP!! Ha ha, got ya!"
9/10/2003
9/07/2003
So the wheel fell off my van.
I should have expected it. The tapping noise had long since stopped by itself. That meant that whatever was loose had become permanently lodged somewhere or just plain fell off. That should have been the first warning sign.
I can only imagine that the, “Safety Inspection,” administered two weeks ago at a garage that will remain unnamed, was done by someone with as much auto knowledge as me.
Mechanic 1: “Does it have gas?”
Mechanic 2: “Yup.”
Mechanic 1: “Did you check the oil?”
Mechanic 2: “Yup.”
Mechanic 1: “Does it need more?”
Mechanic 2: “Can’t tell.”
Mechanic 1: “Is there a map in the glove compartment?”
Mechanic 2: “Two.”
Mechanic 1: “Alright, it passes road inspection. NEXT!”
When it happened I didn’t even have to get out of the van to know what it was. It wasn’t so much that I knew there was going to be a problem with the tire; it was more because someone, at some point, said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if the tire just fell off.” And because my life is just one big running joke anyway, it was inevitable that this, “Funny,” thing would happen. You could set your watch by the strange shit that happens to me.
Anyway, I was driving around, looking for a Barnes & Noble. Next thing I know the van jerks forward and then comes to a grinding halt. Like I said, I knew what had happened right away. All I could do was turn on my emergency blinkers and get out. Fortunately I was on a side street and not on a main highway.
Of the two or three things that held a wheel to a car, only one was still intact, so the wheel was actually still attached to the car in a dangling-eyeball kind of way. Also brake fluid was leaking out. Well, it could have been brake fluid; for all I know it was marmalade.
After putting up one of those orange triangle things about 100 feet back from the car I ran to a payphone in a nearby mall and called USAA. After navigating the USAA touch tone phone system I was promptly put on hold. I’m sure I was on hold for much less time than I thought, but for the duration I was lightly banging my head against the wall. This no doubt disturbed the shoppers at the mall.
I arranged for the tow and went back outside to tell the rich dumbfucks that orange triangle and emergency blinkers meant go AROUND the car, not stop behind it and honk.
So, the car’s in the shop till at least Monday afternoon. Since I’m probably switching jobs soon I still can’t afford a new car, so I just keep paying to get the van repaired. One of these days the mechanics may just do something right.
I should have expected it. The tapping noise had long since stopped by itself. That meant that whatever was loose had become permanently lodged somewhere or just plain fell off. That should have been the first warning sign.
I can only imagine that the, “Safety Inspection,” administered two weeks ago at a garage that will remain unnamed, was done by someone with as much auto knowledge as me.
Mechanic 1: “Does it have gas?”
Mechanic 2: “Yup.”
Mechanic 1: “Did you check the oil?”
Mechanic 2: “Yup.”
Mechanic 1: “Does it need more?”
Mechanic 2: “Can’t tell.”
Mechanic 1: “Is there a map in the glove compartment?”
Mechanic 2: “Two.”
Mechanic 1: “Alright, it passes road inspection. NEXT!”
When it happened I didn’t even have to get out of the van to know what it was. It wasn’t so much that I knew there was going to be a problem with the tire; it was more because someone, at some point, said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if the tire just fell off.” And because my life is just one big running joke anyway, it was inevitable that this, “Funny,” thing would happen. You could set your watch by the strange shit that happens to me.
Anyway, I was driving around, looking for a Barnes & Noble. Next thing I know the van jerks forward and then comes to a grinding halt. Like I said, I knew what had happened right away. All I could do was turn on my emergency blinkers and get out. Fortunately I was on a side street and not on a main highway.
Of the two or three things that held a wheel to a car, only one was still intact, so the wheel was actually still attached to the car in a dangling-eyeball kind of way. Also brake fluid was leaking out. Well, it could have been brake fluid; for all I know it was marmalade.
After putting up one of those orange triangle things about 100 feet back from the car I ran to a payphone in a nearby mall and called USAA. After navigating the USAA touch tone phone system I was promptly put on hold. I’m sure I was on hold for much less time than I thought, but for the duration I was lightly banging my head against the wall. This no doubt disturbed the shoppers at the mall.
I arranged for the tow and went back outside to tell the rich dumbfucks that orange triangle and emergency blinkers meant go AROUND the car, not stop behind it and honk.
So, the car’s in the shop till at least Monday afternoon. Since I’m probably switching jobs soon I still can’t afford a new car, so I just keep paying to get the van repaired. One of these days the mechanics may just do something right.
8/30/2003
11:00
Well, another week, another paycheck, another 30% for taxes, another 20% for rent, another 20% for health insurance, another 25% for utilities, food, and student loan payments.
Actually, I just managed to lower my health insurance payments by $200 dollars. We can certainly file that under “F” for “Fuck YEA!”
It all started several months ago when I became my own independent graphic design firm. Without an employer to provide my health insurance I was forced to sign on for COBRA. COBRA is a sort of extension plan where you can continue using the health coverage through the workplace of a parent of guardian by paying the full monthly price. I won’t tell you exactly how much I was paying, but suffice it to say I was getting a monthly rectal exam without actually having to go to the doctor.
After making my payment for August I received a letter stating that the price was going up and I still had to pay the remainder for the month. I felt as though I had just donated two testicles and was being asked for a third. This was the final straw. I decided to explore my options through the National Association of the Self-Employed and managed to find a pretty comprehensive health plan for TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS LESS than what I was paying. I called up COBRA and instructed them to tell Cobra Commander to roll up my policy and smoke it because I’m bailing out and I want my money for August back.
It’s little moments of triumph like that that keep me going.
12:30
Addendum – Several minutes after publishing the above entry I was struck down with severe abdominal pain. I actually doubled over on the floor.
I called my mother, the nurse, and asked for her diagnosis. The obvious analysis was gas, but after two “Gas Aid” pills and several Tums the problem persisted. She reccomended that if the pain did not dissapate I should go to Urgent Care at the hospital down the road. My insides were on fire so I had no problem with this idea. Then I realized I had no insurance. Technically, my COBRA was never paid for August and my new insurance didn’t take effect until September 1st, just over 24 hours from now. I had managed to remain perfectly healthy for the thirty days I was uninsured. Tonight, on the eve of the 31st, the last day, I got sick. I laughed. It hurt, but I laughed. There is a God, and he fucking hates me.
45 agonizing minutes later it turned out to be gas. Possibly an adverse reaction to the pills the doctor had reccomended to me in order to, guess what, eliminate gas.
I'm still laughing.
Well, another week, another paycheck, another 30% for taxes, another 20% for rent, another 20% for health insurance, another 25% for utilities, food, and student loan payments.
Actually, I just managed to lower my health insurance payments by $200 dollars. We can certainly file that under “F” for “Fuck YEA!”
It all started several months ago when I became my own independent graphic design firm. Without an employer to provide my health insurance I was forced to sign on for COBRA. COBRA is a sort of extension plan where you can continue using the health coverage through the workplace of a parent of guardian by paying the full monthly price. I won’t tell you exactly how much I was paying, but suffice it to say I was getting a monthly rectal exam without actually having to go to the doctor.
After making my payment for August I received a letter stating that the price was going up and I still had to pay the remainder for the month. I felt as though I had just donated two testicles and was being asked for a third. This was the final straw. I decided to explore my options through the National Association of the Self-Employed and managed to find a pretty comprehensive health plan for TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS LESS than what I was paying. I called up COBRA and instructed them to tell Cobra Commander to roll up my policy and smoke it because I’m bailing out and I want my money for August back.
It’s little moments of triumph like that that keep me going.
12:30
Addendum – Several minutes after publishing the above entry I was struck down with severe abdominal pain. I actually doubled over on the floor.
I called my mother, the nurse, and asked for her diagnosis. The obvious analysis was gas, but after two “Gas Aid” pills and several Tums the problem persisted. She reccomended that if the pain did not dissapate I should go to Urgent Care at the hospital down the road. My insides were on fire so I had no problem with this idea. Then I realized I had no insurance. Technically, my COBRA was never paid for August and my new insurance didn’t take effect until September 1st, just over 24 hours from now. I had managed to remain perfectly healthy for the thirty days I was uninsured. Tonight, on the eve of the 31st, the last day, I got sick. I laughed. It hurt, but I laughed. There is a God, and he fucking hates me.
45 agonizing minutes later it turned out to be gas. Possibly an adverse reaction to the pills the doctor had reccomended to me in order to, guess what, eliminate gas.
I'm still laughing.
8/23/2003
Well, Library Girl has disappeared. I guess this was just her summer job. My attempts to strike up a conversation with her had failed by either bad timing or my own self doubt. Now she was gone, off to some school to study some subject she could fall back on if her career as an international supermodel fell through. Heartbroken and lonley, I started crusing the online personals. The following is a real chat transcript that resulted from the one and only reply I've ever gotten from responding to a personal ad. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
(radioactiveegg03):Hi, I'm Jonathan and I'm housebroken
(female chat person): oh Hi hon
(radioactiveegg03):I just sent the sincere response to
your personal
(female chat person): good to see ya
(female chat person): very sweet I appreciate it very much
(radioactiveegg03):I was smitten by your profile. Is smitten
still a useable word?
(radioactiveegg03):smitten sounds like something my parents
would say
(female chat person): I use it lots
(female chat person): lol
(radioactiveegg03):then smitten it is<
(MISC. SMALL TALK)
(female chat person): I'm starting school next month
(female chat person): again
(radioactiveegg03):ah, what are you studying?
(female chat person): massage
(radioactiveegg03):excellent
(radioactiveegg03):So why did you say "Again?"
(female chat person): I went to film school
(radioactiveegg03):now that's very cool!
(radioactiveegg03):I'm more of a film watcher myself, but I love the whole process
(radioactiveegg03):;-)
(female chat person): I am too it seems
(radioactiveegg03):I was often an extra in my friends'
student films. I have such illustrious credits as "Guy at Table #2," and "Guy
that Falls Down"
(female chat person): but I know what it takes to make the major movies
(female chat person): hehehe cool
(female chat person): You cute?
(female chat person): sorry bad question
(radioactiveegg03):No, it's a legitimate one. Wasn't my
picture on my profile?
(female chat person): it wasn't
(radioactiveegg03):hmm. I guess this is the deal breaker
then. One sec, I'll get a link to another one
(female chat person): hehehe
(female chat person): dealbraeker?
(female chat person): breaker
(radioactiveegg03):well, I'm not hideous, but I'm under
the impression that I'm not HOT. I'm cute, I think
(radioactiveegg03):I'm bad at describing myself physically
(female chat person): you very thin?
(female chat person): I'm a big girl
(radioactiveegg03):I'm thin.
(radioactiveegg03):let me know if this works (LINK TO PHOTO*****)
(female chat person): Oh
(female chat person): you have a puppy look to you
(female chat person): I'd break you hon
(radioactiveegg03):oh
(radioactiveegg03):sorry
(female chat person): Thank you so much for chatting you seem real sweet. :)
(radioactiveegg03):thanks
(female chat person): no prob
(female chat person): anytime
(And then she signed off)
8/19/2003
My Car is Being Held Together by The Force
I’m really bothered by the noises my van is making. It creaks, it rattles, it taps. It’s like I’m driving a fucking haunted house. Despite all this, the “mechanics,” can’t find anything “wrong,” with it. This, however, does not keep them from sending me the “bill.”
To the credit of the van, it’s over 12 years old. I think I was still in grade school when I came home to find this new, marvelous vehicle in our driveway. It had all the high tech luxuries of the time, such as air conditioning and a tape player. We’re talking top of the line.
I remember looking at the interior and part of me, a dark part deep below my puberty, wondered what it would be like to have sex in the back seat. Today I look at the back seat and wonder what it would be like to have sex in my own bed.
Just recently the speedometer reached 120,000 miles. For most cars this marks the “cinderblock,” anniversary. Not my van though. My dad kept it in great shape and it came to me in perfect running order. It took me a whole year to properly fuck it up.
Anyway, when the car reached 120,000, the dashboard lit up. I was just driving along and all the sudden I’m celebrating Christmas in my car. Most of the lights went off again, except for the hated “Maint Req’d” light, signaling that it was time for a mechanic to replace your belts with cling wrap and urinate in your gas tank.
I brought it in for a plain and simple tune-up. They decided I wanted to spring for all the extras. While I wanted to argue that I didn’t need a new $70 “serpentine belt,” I had no facts on which to base my claim. I know less than jack about auto mechanics. They could have told me that my van was about to have kittens and I couldn’t say otherwise.
For this same reason, I could not properly identify the rattling and tapping sounds I heard after the tune up. It could be the trans-axle. It could also be a circus midget stuck in my oil filter. What the fuck do I know?
I brought the van back to another mechanic, the ones who had serviced my muffler a few months back. My hope was that the rattling was the muffler, which was still under warranty. They found that the rattle was not the muffler, but the engine mounts which, surprise surprise, were not under warranty.
I paid them my arm, leg, and one testicle and they repaired this problem for me. Now the rattle is 50% quieter. They assured me that the van passed the safety inspection and was safe to drive, but I needed to fix the chip in my windshield.
So I bring the van to yet another mechanic, a pleasant lady with a deep tan, big hair, and an extra smoky voice, you know, like a Speak N’ Spell. She fixed the chip which I had thought, until the other mechanics pointed it out, was a fleck of bird shit.
And so here I am with a van that sounded much better before the tune up, has cost me almost the same amount as a down payment on a new car, and, since I left it to get the windshield fixed, smells faintly of Camel cigarettes.
I’m really bothered by the noises my van is making. It creaks, it rattles, it taps. It’s like I’m driving a fucking haunted house. Despite all this, the “mechanics,” can’t find anything “wrong,” with it. This, however, does not keep them from sending me the “bill.”
To the credit of the van, it’s over 12 years old. I think I was still in grade school when I came home to find this new, marvelous vehicle in our driveway. It had all the high tech luxuries of the time, such as air conditioning and a tape player. We’re talking top of the line.
I remember looking at the interior and part of me, a dark part deep below my puberty, wondered what it would be like to have sex in the back seat. Today I look at the back seat and wonder what it would be like to have sex in my own bed.
Just recently the speedometer reached 120,000 miles. For most cars this marks the “cinderblock,” anniversary. Not my van though. My dad kept it in great shape and it came to me in perfect running order. It took me a whole year to properly fuck it up.
Anyway, when the car reached 120,000, the dashboard lit up. I was just driving along and all the sudden I’m celebrating Christmas in my car. Most of the lights went off again, except for the hated “Maint Req’d” light, signaling that it was time for a mechanic to replace your belts with cling wrap and urinate in your gas tank.
I brought it in for a plain and simple tune-up. They decided I wanted to spring for all the extras. While I wanted to argue that I didn’t need a new $70 “serpentine belt,” I had no facts on which to base my claim. I know less than jack about auto mechanics. They could have told me that my van was about to have kittens and I couldn’t say otherwise.
For this same reason, I could not properly identify the rattling and tapping sounds I heard after the tune up. It could be the trans-axle. It could also be a circus midget stuck in my oil filter. What the fuck do I know?
I brought the van back to another mechanic, the ones who had serviced my muffler a few months back. My hope was that the rattling was the muffler, which was still under warranty. They found that the rattle was not the muffler, but the engine mounts which, surprise surprise, were not under warranty.
I paid them my arm, leg, and one testicle and they repaired this problem for me. Now the rattle is 50% quieter. They assured me that the van passed the safety inspection and was safe to drive, but I needed to fix the chip in my windshield.
So I bring the van to yet another mechanic, a pleasant lady with a deep tan, big hair, and an extra smoky voice, you know, like a Speak N’ Spell. She fixed the chip which I had thought, until the other mechanics pointed it out, was a fleck of bird shit.
And so here I am with a van that sounded much better before the tune up, has cost me almost the same amount as a down payment on a new car, and, since I left it to get the windshield fixed, smells faintly of Camel cigarettes.
8/10/2003
Say Ouch!
My dentists have generally been kind, friendly, affable people. That said, I hope they all burn in hell.
It’s nothing personal. I rarely dislike someone on a personal level, but when it comes to certain professions (i.e. dentists, bank tellers, certain teachers), these people can all just line up to bite me.
Anyway, yesterday I went to see my new dentist. I won’t implicate them by giving you their business name, but I will say that it included the word “Gentle.” This is a complete fucking misnomer. The word “Gentle,” could easily have been replaced by “Hideously Painful,” “Bloodbath,” or “Is It Safe?”
Let me just state for the record that my teeth are in good shape. I haven’t had a cavity in years, I brush twice a day, and I go through mouthwash like it was about to be prohibited in the Constitution. I’ll be the first to admit that I need to floss more and I could certainly eat fewer sweets, but otherwise my teeth do alright.
These people found new and tender places to hurt me. They chiseled away at my teeth like they were engraving a fucking granite cornerstone. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if today’s date was now etched in one of my molars. Then they used the patented “Hurts Like Fuck,” water pick. I didn’t think it possible, but they invented a water pick that not only sounds like a drill, but also somehow causes the same amount of pain. Then, at long last, came the flossing. I lack the words to properly describe this garroting, but suffice it to say there was blood. Lots of blood. It was like my teeth were watching Reservoir Dogs.
The dentist then gave me a handheld mirror, and pointed to a particularly brutalized portion of my lower front gums. She said, “See where it’s bleeding here, that means you’re not flossing enough.”
Without second thought I responded, “Well, for the record, that’s also where you’ve been poking those sharp metal things.”
She gave a giggle, took back the mirror, and wrote something on my chart. I imagine it was something like, “Hurt him more next time!”
My dentists have generally been kind, friendly, affable people. That said, I hope they all burn in hell.
It’s nothing personal. I rarely dislike someone on a personal level, but when it comes to certain professions (i.e. dentists, bank tellers, certain teachers), these people can all just line up to bite me.
Anyway, yesterday I went to see my new dentist. I won’t implicate them by giving you their business name, but I will say that it included the word “Gentle.” This is a complete fucking misnomer. The word “Gentle,” could easily have been replaced by “Hideously Painful,” “Bloodbath,” or “Is It Safe?”
Let me just state for the record that my teeth are in good shape. I haven’t had a cavity in years, I brush twice a day, and I go through mouthwash like it was about to be prohibited in the Constitution. I’ll be the first to admit that I need to floss more and I could certainly eat fewer sweets, but otherwise my teeth do alright.
These people found new and tender places to hurt me. They chiseled away at my teeth like they were engraving a fucking granite cornerstone. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if today’s date was now etched in one of my molars. Then they used the patented “Hurts Like Fuck,” water pick. I didn’t think it possible, but they invented a water pick that not only sounds like a drill, but also somehow causes the same amount of pain. Then, at long last, came the flossing. I lack the words to properly describe this garroting, but suffice it to say there was blood. Lots of blood. It was like my teeth were watching Reservoir Dogs.
The dentist then gave me a handheld mirror, and pointed to a particularly brutalized portion of my lower front gums. She said, “See where it’s bleeding here, that means you’re not flossing enough.”
Without second thought I responded, “Well, for the record, that’s also where you’ve been poking those sharp metal things.”
She gave a giggle, took back the mirror, and wrote something on my chart. I imagine it was something like, “Hurt him more next time!”
8/06/2003
8/01/2003
I’ve started the job hunt again because I’m not getting nearly enough rejection in my normal day to day activities.
It first started after the bank finally returned the portion of my money that it was using for hookers and blow. I found that I was still only making it by the skin of my teeth. I suppose it is partially because I am living an opulent life. I’ve squandered my money on such extravagances as gingerale and underwear.
Anyway, of the three things trying to kill me (my bank, my stomach, and my job) my job has taken the last few swings. For one, this financial depression could easily be associated with the $358.89 I pay for my own health insurance each month. No benefits, no sick days, no vacation time. Freelance is a lot like being in school, only if you don’t get “good grades” you’re going to be living in a cardboard box trying to get drunk off Listerine. Performance has never been my problem, but when the deadlines are met and the work is finished, so are you. No severance package, no going away party. “You don’t mind being unemployed until we need you again, do you?”
I hear you say “If you’re a freelancer, why not have some other work on the side?” First of all, the job I have for the time being is a 40+ hour a week gig. I barely have time and energy to make myself an edible meal when I get home, much less start another job. I could cut back my hours at this job and get a foothold somewhere else, right? Wrong. Once my hours start dropping they have to hire someone else to pick up the slack. And guess what? A trained chimp could do my job. Soon enough they’re going to realize that they can get the same work done by hiring someone full-time for less than they’re paying me. And as for, “Getting some other work,” I’d like to direct your attention to Graph A-1. See this large curve that shoots off the graph here? That shows how much ass I had to kiss to get the job I have now.
And so here I am again. I’m shuffling through my address book, trying to find the names of the people who couldn’t help me find work a year ago, but may have something now. I’m checking the papers and the internet. I imagine it won’t be long until I’m cold-calling every design company in the phone book again. That’s a good way of learning about your local graphic design companies; like which ones work with traditional print design, which ones work with multimedia, and which ones are actually pizza delivery places.
“Oh, so you don’t need a graphic designer then? How about a delivery boy?”
It first started after the bank finally returned the portion of my money that it was using for hookers and blow. I found that I was still only making it by the skin of my teeth. I suppose it is partially because I am living an opulent life. I’ve squandered my money on such extravagances as gingerale and underwear.
Anyway, of the three things trying to kill me (my bank, my stomach, and my job) my job has taken the last few swings. For one, this financial depression could easily be associated with the $358.89 I pay for my own health insurance each month. No benefits, no sick days, no vacation time. Freelance is a lot like being in school, only if you don’t get “good grades” you’re going to be living in a cardboard box trying to get drunk off Listerine. Performance has never been my problem, but when the deadlines are met and the work is finished, so are you. No severance package, no going away party. “You don’t mind being unemployed until we need you again, do you?”
I hear you say “If you’re a freelancer, why not have some other work on the side?” First of all, the job I have for the time being is a 40+ hour a week gig. I barely have time and energy to make myself an edible meal when I get home, much less start another job. I could cut back my hours at this job and get a foothold somewhere else, right? Wrong. Once my hours start dropping they have to hire someone else to pick up the slack. And guess what? A trained chimp could do my job. Soon enough they’re going to realize that they can get the same work done by hiring someone full-time for less than they’re paying me. And as for, “Getting some other work,” I’d like to direct your attention to Graph A-1. See this large curve that shoots off the graph here? That shows how much ass I had to kiss to get the job I have now.
And so here I am again. I’m shuffling through my address book, trying to find the names of the people who couldn’t help me find work a year ago, but may have something now. I’m checking the papers and the internet. I imagine it won’t be long until I’m cold-calling every design company in the phone book again. That’s a good way of learning about your local graphic design companies; like which ones work with traditional print design, which ones work with multimedia, and which ones are actually pizza delivery places.
“Oh, so you don’t need a graphic designer then? How about a delivery boy?”
7/26/2003
Tonight, We Feast
It started off as a typical lazy Saturday. I had decided, based on some very valuable advice, that I would try to have more meaningful conversations with Library Girl before I jumped head-first into asking her out. You know, something more than “Hello, I’d like to rent this copy of Yojimbo.” I don’t think she’d go out with me based solely on my stellar taste in movies. The trick would be to take it slower. Do things like learn her last name. I’m sure it’s not “Girl.”
This, of course, frees up my schedule for more sitting around.
So in my free time I gathered some choice food products and invited the one and only Sister J. over for dinner. She hadn’t been to my apartment since before I rescued my laz-z-boy from the unwanted furniture shelter, so she had not seen my bachelor pad in all its glory. She was quite impressed, although I knew she would be. The style in which I decorate and organize my apartment is influenced heavily by my three major role models; dad, mom, sister. Any one of them would be perfectly pleased with the way my apartment looks (except for the Brooke Burke swimsuit calendar. That one’s all me).
I cooked dinner for her, which was, of course, a radical turn of the tables. I was pleased to finally be able to return the favor of many a free meal at her place. I’m not one to flaunt my cooking skills, I am certainly no Iron Chef (though I’m becoming more and more certain that I am an Iron Monkey). I will say, however, that this particular dinner came out perfect. It was a feast of kings! Seriously, it was like the end of a Greek odyssey.
But, of course, my greatest contribution to the culinary arts came at dessert time. I filled two mugs with Cherry Garcia ice cream and almost left it at that when I spied a tiny sample bottle of Godiva chocolate liqueur in my fridge. It was a leftover from a former era, though which era I couldn’t remember; it might have been the Reagan administration. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have it, I had just forgotten it was there. Until that morning, it had been obscured by a bag of vegetables which was so old it had moved to the next shelf on its own.
A tiny light, no bigger than the one in the refrigerator, went on in my head. Ice Cream: Chocolate and Cherry. Godiva: Chocolate and alcohol. No, it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence. I opened the bottle and hesitated before pouring it on the ice cream. I was suddenly afraid that combining two forces so powerful might end the universe. I decided to test fate.
I doubt I'm the first person to ever try this, but if I am, please forward my Nobel Peace Prize to my NH address because this could possibly the the greatest food combination ever.
It started off as a typical lazy Saturday. I had decided, based on some very valuable advice, that I would try to have more meaningful conversations with Library Girl before I jumped head-first into asking her out. You know, something more than “Hello, I’d like to rent this copy of Yojimbo.” I don’t think she’d go out with me based solely on my stellar taste in movies. The trick would be to take it slower. Do things like learn her last name. I’m sure it’s not “Girl.”
This, of course, frees up my schedule for more sitting around.
So in my free time I gathered some choice food products and invited the one and only Sister J. over for dinner. She hadn’t been to my apartment since before I rescued my laz-z-boy from the unwanted furniture shelter, so she had not seen my bachelor pad in all its glory. She was quite impressed, although I knew she would be. The style in which I decorate and organize my apartment is influenced heavily by my three major role models; dad, mom, sister. Any one of them would be perfectly pleased with the way my apartment looks (except for the Brooke Burke swimsuit calendar. That one’s all me).
I cooked dinner for her, which was, of course, a radical turn of the tables. I was pleased to finally be able to return the favor of many a free meal at her place. I’m not one to flaunt my cooking skills, I am certainly no Iron Chef (though I’m becoming more and more certain that I am an Iron Monkey). I will say, however, that this particular dinner came out perfect. It was a feast of kings! Seriously, it was like the end of a Greek odyssey.
But, of course, my greatest contribution to the culinary arts came at dessert time. I filled two mugs with Cherry Garcia ice cream and almost left it at that when I spied a tiny sample bottle of Godiva chocolate liqueur in my fridge. It was a leftover from a former era, though which era I couldn’t remember; it might have been the Reagan administration. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to have it, I had just forgotten it was there. Until that morning, it had been obscured by a bag of vegetables which was so old it had moved to the next shelf on its own.
A tiny light, no bigger than the one in the refrigerator, went on in my head. Ice Cream: Chocolate and Cherry. Godiva: Chocolate and alcohol. No, it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence. I opened the bottle and hesitated before pouring it on the ice cream. I was suddenly afraid that combining two forces so powerful might end the universe. I decided to test fate.
I doubt I'm the first person to ever try this, but if I am, please forward my Nobel Peace Prize to my NH address because this could possibly the the greatest food combination ever.
7/25/2003
Library Girl
“You know, I think it’s great that your library carries movies. To be honest though, every time I’ve come here, I haven’t been able to find a movie I feel like watching. But, I usually just keep looking because in the time it takes me to read the back of every single box I might finally muster up the courage to say something like, ‘I think you’re very attractive,’ or ‘I’d love to take you to dinner sometime.’”
There, how hard would that be to say? I just wrote it. Now all I have to do is make sounds with my mouth to match the letters. I could practice now, I’ll just start slow. “Y- Yoooou knnnnnnnnnoooooo.”
Shit. Why is it so hard? Is it because I’m afraid of rejection? Ha! That’s a laugh! I’m the reigning fucking champion of rejection. I get it every day. That’s like asking if I’m afraid of eating cereal.
So what is it? What am I afraid of?
I know. It’s that instant right after your barf your feelings out and finally speak. The world goes quiet and everyone from across the room to fucking China stops to listen. It doesn’t matter what she says next; if it’s “yes,” the world is all flowers and sunshine, if it’s “no,” then you resume breathing and retreat back to whatever hole you dared to venture out of (you’ve made an ass of yourself, that’ll be enough for one day, move along). That's the moment that scares me so damn much.
And it’s the easiest thing in the world to avoid isn’t it? All you have to do is not speak…
Well, tonight I said, “To hell with it, life isn’t worth living if you don’t take chances.” I decided I would pour my heart out, and no matter what happens I would be a better man.
I had been cultivating the thought all morning. “Why not just ask her out? Go for it. Go, Jon! Go, Jon!"
I have such a skewed sense of complacency that the thought of asking a girl out is comparable to planning a trip for Disney Land. I had to fit my whole day around it. I mapped out my approach while I was at work. I knew what line I’d open with and I knew how I’d react if the result was ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ I tried to rehearse every possible outcome on my lunch break. I even left work early, taking the extra time to prepare.
Of course, by prepare I mean sitting in my apartment doubting myself.
No! I'm through doubting! I grabbed my keys and wallet and stuffed a couple antacids in my pocket in preparation for the inevitable heartburn. Then, stopping to think about this, I took the whole bottle.
On the drive over, I rehearsed my line and tried to prepare myself for jumping out of mediocrity and shyness and taking a bold step towards being a functioning social adult.
The library was closed.
“You know, I think it’s great that your library carries movies. To be honest though, every time I’ve come here, I haven’t been able to find a movie I feel like watching. But, I usually just keep looking because in the time it takes me to read the back of every single box I might finally muster up the courage to say something like, ‘I think you’re very attractive,’ or ‘I’d love to take you to dinner sometime.’”
There, how hard would that be to say? I just wrote it. Now all I have to do is make sounds with my mouth to match the letters. I could practice now, I’ll just start slow. “Y- Yoooou knnnnnnnnnoooooo.”
Shit. Why is it so hard? Is it because I’m afraid of rejection? Ha! That’s a laugh! I’m the reigning fucking champion of rejection. I get it every day. That’s like asking if I’m afraid of eating cereal.
So what is it? What am I afraid of?
I know. It’s that instant right after your barf your feelings out and finally speak. The world goes quiet and everyone from across the room to fucking China stops to listen. It doesn’t matter what she says next; if it’s “yes,” the world is all flowers and sunshine, if it’s “no,” then you resume breathing and retreat back to whatever hole you dared to venture out of (you’ve made an ass of yourself, that’ll be enough for one day, move along). That's the moment that scares me so damn much.
And it’s the easiest thing in the world to avoid isn’t it? All you have to do is not speak…
Well, tonight I said, “To hell with it, life isn’t worth living if you don’t take chances.” I decided I would pour my heart out, and no matter what happens I would be a better man.
I had been cultivating the thought all morning. “Why not just ask her out? Go for it. Go, Jon! Go, Jon!"
I have such a skewed sense of complacency that the thought of asking a girl out is comparable to planning a trip for Disney Land. I had to fit my whole day around it. I mapped out my approach while I was at work. I knew what line I’d open with and I knew how I’d react if the result was ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ I tried to rehearse every possible outcome on my lunch break. I even left work early, taking the extra time to prepare.
Of course, by prepare I mean sitting in my apartment doubting myself.
No! I'm through doubting! I grabbed my keys and wallet and stuffed a couple antacids in my pocket in preparation for the inevitable heartburn. Then, stopping to think about this, I took the whole bottle.
On the drive over, I rehearsed my line and tried to prepare myself for jumping out of mediocrity and shyness and taking a bold step towards being a functioning social adult.
The library was closed.
7/23/2003
I just hopped online to answer my junk mail. Let’s reach into the mailbag and see what we can find.
Oh, here’s a nice one from aedfapegxhasde@aol.com It reads:
“A special offer just for you! Senior citizens take enormous cock! See grannies suck and fuck! Join Now!”
Let's respond, shall we?
Dear aedfapegxhasde,
I was flattered to receive your special offer. It is not often that I am recognized for my merit, much less rewarded for it. I am glad that you chose me, of all people, for this spectacular honor.
I have viewed the portfolio of work on your website with the awe of blind man who has recovered his sight. Particularly, your use of color and composition in the “Wheelchair Bang,” series was almost painterly in its elegance.
The weekly movie clips border on art of an even higher level. I could easily compare your directorial efforts in “Arthritis and Ass,” as well as “Nurse! Blow Me!” to the greater directors of our generation. I dare say the work of Coppla pales in comparison to even your shorter films, such as “I’ve Got Gas and a 10 Inch Cock”
You have a firm grasp of the beauty of the human form. Your figures are like sculptures; intertwined flesh mounted atop the contrasting cold, inhuman pedestal of the “Little Rascal.”
It is with much despair that I report I am unable to become a VIP member of your site. All art is priceless, however I find your monthly fee to be exorbitant. One could view similar works for a fraction of the cost at a museum.
I beg of you, sir. Please do not let high prices stand between the public and such splendid human studies.
Sincerely,
Jonathan
Oh, here’s a nice one from aedfapegxhasde@aol.com It reads:
“A special offer just for you! Senior citizens take enormous cock! See grannies suck and fuck! Join Now!”
Let's respond, shall we?
Dear aedfapegxhasde,
I was flattered to receive your special offer. It is not often that I am recognized for my merit, much less rewarded for it. I am glad that you chose me, of all people, for this spectacular honor.
I have viewed the portfolio of work on your website with the awe of blind man who has recovered his sight. Particularly, your use of color and composition in the “Wheelchair Bang,” series was almost painterly in its elegance.
The weekly movie clips border on art of an even higher level. I could easily compare your directorial efforts in “Arthritis and Ass,” as well as “Nurse! Blow Me!” to the greater directors of our generation. I dare say the work of Coppla pales in comparison to even your shorter films, such as “I’ve Got Gas and a 10 Inch Cock”
You have a firm grasp of the beauty of the human form. Your figures are like sculptures; intertwined flesh mounted atop the contrasting cold, inhuman pedestal of the “Little Rascal.”
It is with much despair that I report I am unable to become a VIP member of your site. All art is priceless, however I find your monthly fee to be exorbitant. One could view similar works for a fraction of the cost at a museum.
I beg of you, sir. Please do not let high prices stand between the public and such splendid human studies.
Sincerely,
Jonathan
7/21/2003
Stranger than Real Life
Last night I got rejected in my own dream.
It was one of those dreams that played through several times during the night, with only slight variations on the same theme. The pinnacle of weirdness was reached during the last showing, which starred the Justice League.
In my dream, I was a member of the Justice Leage; the unity of superheroes dedicated to saving the world. I did not know what my power was, but I'm pretty certain I was still cooler than Aquaman.
We were all gathered at one of our meetings (you know, to discuss things like nuclear weapons and the bake sale). Suddenly, not one, but two naked women burst into the Hall of Justice, or wherever the hell superheroes meet. The two women told us that they had been sent as a special "strip-o-gram." Their message, and the fact that there was already nothing left to strip off, was unimportant. What was important was that they were going to give individual heroes a "private" show. Kinky, right? Or demented, depends on what you like.
Anyway. First they took Batman to the next room. He came back a few minutes later with a huge fucking grin on his face. Next, Robin got to go. Is Robin even in the Justice League? Well, anyway, he got the same treatment, huge grin and everything. Then Superman got to go. I'm sure the man of steel had a ball in there. Then Jimmy Olsen got to go. JIMMY OLSEN? What the fuck!? I know Jimmy Olsen is not in the Justice League. Why does a second... no... third string character get to go?
Well, it gets worse. When Jimmy came back, BATMAN WENT AGAIN! What the fuck? Why does Batman get to go twice!?
I actually said that out loud in my dream. In response, Wonder Woman leaned over to me and said. "He has great sex appeal. All women love that. I do too. Oh wow, I could jump him right now." I was heartbroken. I've had a crush on Wonder Woman, and all she can think about is shagging the flying rat.
Well, Batman came back, and then AQUAMAN got to go! That's worse than Jimmy Olsen.
That was the final straw, I stood up and said, "Can I go next." I know I meant to say something more dramatic than that, like "This is an outrage. Let's behave like adults." But, truth be told, I really wanted the private show.
The girls looked at me, and one of them said, "Sorry, time's up, this is our last show."
To the credit of my subconscious, I took this outrage calmly and with dignity, despite my dissapointment. I'm glad to know that the first impulse of my id wasn't to curl up and cry like a little girl.
Anyway, that's where the dream ends. Jon Man gets the blow-off and then it's back to work as usual.
No more nachos and self-loathing before bedtime.
Last night I got rejected in my own dream.
It was one of those dreams that played through several times during the night, with only slight variations on the same theme. The pinnacle of weirdness was reached during the last showing, which starred the Justice League.
In my dream, I was a member of the Justice Leage; the unity of superheroes dedicated to saving the world. I did not know what my power was, but I'm pretty certain I was still cooler than Aquaman.
We were all gathered at one of our meetings (you know, to discuss things like nuclear weapons and the bake sale). Suddenly, not one, but two naked women burst into the Hall of Justice, or wherever the hell superheroes meet. The two women told us that they had been sent as a special "strip-o-gram." Their message, and the fact that there was already nothing left to strip off, was unimportant. What was important was that they were going to give individual heroes a "private" show. Kinky, right? Or demented, depends on what you like.
Anyway. First they took Batman to the next room. He came back a few minutes later with a huge fucking grin on his face. Next, Robin got to go. Is Robin even in the Justice League? Well, anyway, he got the same treatment, huge grin and everything. Then Superman got to go. I'm sure the man of steel had a ball in there. Then Jimmy Olsen got to go. JIMMY OLSEN? What the fuck!? I know Jimmy Olsen is not in the Justice League. Why does a second... no... third string character get to go?
Well, it gets worse. When Jimmy came back, BATMAN WENT AGAIN! What the fuck? Why does Batman get to go twice!?
I actually said that out loud in my dream. In response, Wonder Woman leaned over to me and said. "He has great sex appeal. All women love that. I do too. Oh wow, I could jump him right now." I was heartbroken. I've had a crush on Wonder Woman, and all she can think about is shagging the flying rat.
Well, Batman came back, and then AQUAMAN got to go! That's worse than Jimmy Olsen.
That was the final straw, I stood up and said, "Can I go next." I know I meant to say something more dramatic than that, like "This is an outrage. Let's behave like adults." But, truth be told, I really wanted the private show.
The girls looked at me, and one of them said, "Sorry, time's up, this is our last show."
To the credit of my subconscious, I took this outrage calmly and with dignity, despite my dissapointment. I'm glad to know that the first impulse of my id wasn't to curl up and cry like a little girl.
Anyway, that's where the dream ends. Jon Man gets the blow-off and then it's back to work as usual.
No more nachos and self-loathing before bedtime.
7/20/2003
Beach Blanket Armageddon
Today my sister invited me to come with her to the beach. I was feeling down in the dumps so I accepted gladly. Perhaps a little too gladly, she must have thought I had ulterior motives, like this was some reality show and I get a million dollars if she invites me to the beach.
I let her know that I was just glad to get out and do something. Lately, whenever I’m not sitting around my apartment, I’ve been doing a lot of group activities, only by myself. I’ve gone to bars, browsed through the library, gone on long walks. All of these would be perfect dates if I were accompanied by anything but my keys.
Anyway, the whole beach thing was pretty fun. We didn’t stay long because high tide came in soon after we arrived; mother nature’s way of sweeping away the philistines and tourists. But, we stayed just long enough so I could get a nice, even sunburn.
It all happened pretty quickly, the sunburn. I was surprised at how soon after I spread out my beach blanket and sat down that I began to smell bacon. One minute I’m sitting, relaxing, spying the nubile beach bunnies that were all WWWWWWAAAAAYYYYYY out of my league, and then the next minute, “Foom!” it was like a turkey had exploded in the oven. I was instantly sunburned in painful and exotic places.
Aside from the fact that I look like an all-you-can-eat platter at Red Lobster, I had a great time. It was a refreshing and much needed change to go somewhere and have someone to talk to. Sure, I could be the guy who tries to strike up a conversation with strangers, but admit it, that guy creeps you out.
Today my sister invited me to come with her to the beach. I was feeling down in the dumps so I accepted gladly. Perhaps a little too gladly, she must have thought I had ulterior motives, like this was some reality show and I get a million dollars if she invites me to the beach.
I let her know that I was just glad to get out and do something. Lately, whenever I’m not sitting around my apartment, I’ve been doing a lot of group activities, only by myself. I’ve gone to bars, browsed through the library, gone on long walks. All of these would be perfect dates if I were accompanied by anything but my keys.
Anyway, the whole beach thing was pretty fun. We didn’t stay long because high tide came in soon after we arrived; mother nature’s way of sweeping away the philistines and tourists. But, we stayed just long enough so I could get a nice, even sunburn.
It all happened pretty quickly, the sunburn. I was surprised at how soon after I spread out my beach blanket and sat down that I began to smell bacon. One minute I’m sitting, relaxing, spying the nubile beach bunnies that were all WWWWWWAAAAAYYYYYY out of my league, and then the next minute, “Foom!” it was like a turkey had exploded in the oven. I was instantly sunburned in painful and exotic places.
Aside from the fact that I look like an all-you-can-eat platter at Red Lobster, I had a great time. It was a refreshing and much needed change to go somewhere and have someone to talk to. Sure, I could be the guy who tries to strike up a conversation with strangers, but admit it, that guy creeps you out.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)