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)