Animal Kingdom seemed even more authentic thanks to the small belts of moderate to heavy rainfall that gave it an organic, rainforest-like feel.

Anyway, having indulged in a little too much Egg Nog while visiting my aunt the previous night, I was having none of that crazy ride madness; not that I was having any before. I stuck to the strictly tame, mostly animal-related activities that didn't really thrill you, but made you feel good about nature and stuff.

The funny thing about the live animals in Animal Kingdom is that, with the exception of a few species, it seems like all the creatures on display are native to the area. It's as if they just happened to be on the grounds when the park was built. Had I been in New Hampshire, not Florida, I might have been impressed. As it was, I was looking into glass habitats filled with the kind of birds that tried to steal my sandwich at Epcot.

Aside from having more locals than Cheers, they had some gorillas who were just chilling out, a hippo who I got to see above water and under water (they're surprisingly graceful under water), and a wide selection of creepy crawlies kept in glass aquariums which just didn't seem to be thick enough (we're not talking about the kind of bugs you go after with Raid. When these guys show up at your house, it's time to pack up the kids and move).

They also had the world's most disappointing petting zoo. I don't know if it was the spurts of rain, of if the animals were kind of burned out on people, but every last one of them was huddled together within a roped off area labeled as their, "Time Out Zone." Species that were probably natural rivals were piled on top of each other in their little zone telling each other, "If one more kid touches me I'm gonna freaking loose it."

My favorite attraction was within the "Tree of Life," large man-made tree whose bark, upon closer inspection, is actually a collection of hundreds of carvings depicting various animals. Within the tree was the theater for, "It's Tough Being a Bug," an interactive presentation starring the characters from "A Bug's Life." Not just a 3D movie, you were sprayed with water, "stung" in the back, and hosed by a stink bug. Better than the beloved "Muppets 3D." I'm told that I missed a similar experience at MGM in "Honey I Shrunk the Audience," which I didn't intentionally avoid, I simply didn't know it was there. Maybe next time.

It was a short day because we had to catch the craziest ride of all, our flight home.

Overall I had a wonderful time at Walt Disney World and I think perhaps one day I'll go back, but maybe after I have kids of my own, I KNOW they'll freaking love it.

Florida Day 5: Kennedy Space Center (12/9/04)

Not much to say, fun and interesting, blah blah blah.

The pictures say it all.

Florida Day 4: Epcot (12/8/04)

Epcot was fine and dandy.

Ug, don’t feel like writing anymore.

It was largely an educational and enlightening experience, well, for me anyway (I pussed out on a few of the wild rides).

Highlights included an enlightening presentation on animation, various moving movie and anamatronic rides, all kinds of science and technology doohickeys, and a large international pavilion featuring cultures from all over the world.

My dad made a note of how, besides a few shows and about one culture film in each area, the international area was really just a string of gift shops, an international super mall if you will. He had that right, but I enjoy shopping, so I was OK with it.

Apparently Disney makes it a policy to hire only natives of that country in each international pavilion. I was crazy about this, it was so cool. It was a kaleidoscope of accents and mannerisms. And the women, oh the women, exotic and lovely. In the hot chick international category, we have a tie for first place between the strong yet delicate women of Germany (well, of Epcot Germany anyway. The real Germans might be different), and the exotic beauties of Japan. I bet I’d be a stud in Japan. A tall American stud muffin with my wild Western manners. I would dominate Japan like Godzilla… or not… it’s just a theory I have.

One new album “Other Misc Shots,” can be found at the picture site http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/radioactiveegg03/my_photos , comprised mainly of pictures taken by other members of my family. Some good stuff in there.

Florida Day 3: Disney/MGM Studios (12/7/04)

Now this is more like it! A movie theme park. That’s my kind place. I also really dug the 1950’s Hollywood Boulevard motif, I guess I’m really into retro lately.

I’m actually getting tired of writing. It could be caused by any number of things, which I’ll get into later. But for now I’m just going to run through some of the highlights of the visit.

Muppets 3D – You gotta love the Muppets. You gotta love 3D. You gotta love this show. The revolutionary 3D technology was like nothing you’ve seen before (unless you’ve seen other 3D shows at the other parks before this, I guess). Helped out by “real” Muppets at the side and back of the stage.

The Great Movie Ride – Tour through surprisingly well rendered sets from your favorite movies. My personal favorite was, of course, the set of Alien. The creepy gothic space ship halls were awesome, even if I could barely see the alien in all that fog and steam.

Sci-Fi Dine-In Theatre – Though not actually an “attraction,” it was my favorite place. Picture a restaurant where all the tables are shaped like 1950’s cars, and they’re all facing a big screen that plays cartoons and ultra cheesy sci-fi movie trailers. The waitress comes around, sometimes on roller skates, to deliver your drinks which each have a light in them that causes them to glow. How cool is that!

Fantasmic makes for a spectacular nighttime show. Part stage show, part parade, part fireworks, it’s a joy for all the senses. And let me tell you, it was packed. When you have a massive outdoor arena and by the time you get to the show, 20 minutes before it starts, and there’s only standing room left, then you can imagine how packed it was. It was worthwhile though.

HARBOR ATTACK! – By just missing the previous showing and being first in line for the next performance, my sister and I were chosen, along with two other hapless guests, to participate in the show. We were ushered into a side room and given rain slickers, pants, and heavy boots to wear. This was the first sign of trouble. We were brought out on stage where we were the performers in the Harbor Attack Special Effects Show. Basically they me at the head of a PT boat being hit by “torpedoes” which splashed water everywhere. Jen got it worse in the “engineering room” where two huge dumpster-sized buckets of water were shot in the window at her. A good time was had by all.

Florida Day 2: The Magic Kingdom (12/6/04)

Without being negative, I think I can say that some of the "magic" of the "Magic" Kingdom is lost on me. Maybe it’s just my age. Having said that, it’s still a damn fun time.

I tried a roller coaster for the first time! I didn’t like it. I’m going to revert to my anti-roller coaster stance. My sister told me I need to try more, to overcome my fear of rollercoasters. For the record, I’m not afraid of roller coasters. I’m afraid of vomiting while taking a turn at 90mph. Fortunately, there are very few ways to be put in that situation, and they’re easy to avoid.

The roller coaster in question was Thunder Mountain, a “Disneyfied” roller coaster for “kids.” The “kids” on the train seemed to like it. I, on the other hand, was not enjoying myself. I just don’t like the sensations brought on by a roller coaster. It’s just the way I am.

Other rides brought me much joy. Splash Mountain was a personal favorite of mine (although for fear of losing my glasses on the big splashdowns I kept them in my pocket. This kind of dampened the experience a little as I watched a Brer Rabbit-shaped blur being chased by a Brer Fox-shaped blur alongside the boat.)

Other favorites include Buzz Lightyear’s Space Ranger Spin. A very tame ride, it’s more of a moving shooting gallery, which was… well… a blast. My mad video game skills were showing when I scored more than three times anyone else in my family. 78500 points! Go to Walt Disney World right now, hop on that ride a few times and beat that score, I dare you!

That particular ride was located in Tomorrowland, my favorite of the sub kingdoms within The Magic Kingdom (which is, itself, a sub kingdom of Walt Disney World). I loved the retro-future motif of that whole wing of the park, kind of a 1950’s view of the future, it’s was groovy.

The Haunted Mansion and other animatronic attractions like it were pretty anti-climactic, but fun nonetheless. They're still notable for all their visual tricks and puns.

We capped off the day by catching the parade… well, one of the parades anyway, apparently there are a LOT of parades in Disney World. At night the place lit up all sorts of colors and we were treated to various stage shows until we were to tired to stand, much less walk.

Pictures are up now at http://pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/radioactiveegg03/my_photos.

Florida Day 1 (12/5/04)

Though not my first flight, I dealt with my ride to Florida with less than iron fortitude. Twiddling my thumbs at mach speed and clenching my jaw so tight that it somehow made my crotch hurt. It was difficult to say what I was so nervous about. I'm well informed, I knew the facts; I know there's a better chance of killing myself with a Nutrageous bar than actually dying in a plane crash. But that didn't seem to make me any more relaxed. Something about it, the long dawn out anticipation before takeoff, the massive acceleration as you speed down the runway, the availability of free booze. It's all so intimidating.

Things went off without a hitch though, and for that I’m grateful.

It became apparent soon after we landed and piled in our rental car how obsessed my mother was with hurricane damage. Every few minutes it was “Oooh, look at all knocked over trees,” or “Look, that house still has a tarp over the roof.” She would point out broken street signs like she was drawing our attention to foreign landmarks. My mom is funny like that.

The condo, which was to be the base of our operations for the next six days and five nights, was about the size of my car. It had one bedroom and one living area. The bedroom was for my parents, the living area was for my sister and I. She got the fold-out couch. I got the cot which, because of the space taken up by the fold-out couch, could not be unfurled without opening two doors. This is not to say she had the bigger bed, it was just a small, small place.

That was it, on day one we only settled in and had dinner at Cracker Barrel (where you can get eggs with ANYTHING!).

P.S. What’s up with grits? They’re not that great.

P.S.S. Pictures to follow soon.

I'M GOING TO DISNEY WORLD, BI-ATCH!

Despite my initial reluctance to spend the evening enjoying the musical stylings of "Oklahoma!" I was genuinely disappointed when we found out the show was canceled. At first I felt guilt, like I had somehow canceled the show with my mind.

Upon realizing I did not possess awesome psychic powers, I felt regret; I had surrendered to the idea that we were going to a musical and was almost looking forward to it, if for no other reason than to say I've actually sat through one. When it comes to watching musicals I usually do something drastic, like change the chanel or throw out the tape.

Aside from the cancellation, Thanksgiving weekend has been uneventful and even relaxing. We've traveled to Jen's place in CT and she did a remarkable job of preparing An Official Thanksgiving Feast, with only a minimum of coaching.

Travel has, thus far, been better than anyone had thought. We hit virtually no traffic on the way South by leaving Thursday morning. Whether our luck holds for the ride back home tomorrow remains to be seen.

One final note; I saw and fully enjoyed The Incredibles today. My apologies to Chris, because I know we were going to see that on Sunday; but I was given the choice of going shopping with my mom and sister or go see a movie with my dad. I love them all equally, but it was really not a tough choice.

Chairman: Alright people, it’s that time again. We’ve got to plan another episode of Fear Factor. Let’s take it from the top. What should our first challenge be?

Board members:
“French kiss a SARS patient!”
“Hopscotch on subway tracks!”
“Stab yourself!”
“Spend time with Doctor Phil!”

Chairman: Good good, I’m glad to see you’re all bringing you’re A-game.

Jimmy the intern: Walk a high wire!

Silence

Chairman: Oh yea, I almost forgot. Everyone, this is our new intern, Jimmy. What Jimmy doesn’t know is that we did “Walk a high wire,” in season one. Season one was for pussies, Jimmy. This season is going to be for real men. Which are you Jimmy?

Jimmy: I’m… a real… man?

Chairman: That’s right, Jimmy. You’re playing with the big boys now. Anyway, “Hopscotch on subway tracks,” let’s run with that one.

Board member: We can set it up on the tracks at the downtown station. Rounds can last anywhere between 5 and 10 minutes, depending on the train schedule.

Chairman: Hmm, good. How many tracks are electrified?

Board member: Um, only one I think.

Chairman: Can we make it two?

Board member: I think so. It may require a portable generator.

Chairman: Do it. What about rats?

Board member: There can be rats

Chairman: I want lots of rats!

Board member: Big rats?

Chairman: Huge rats. Fly them in if you have to. I won’t settle for anything less than two crates of skanky rats. And make sure they haven’t eaten. I want two crates of large, skanky, hungry rats. I want them crawling on the contestants. We’ll cover the contestants with cheese.

Board member: Do rats really go for cheese?

Chairman: Good point. Meat! They’ll wear helmets of rotten meat. The rats will go crazy.

Excellent, now for round 2, or, as we like to call it, “the vomit round.” Give me some ideas.

Board members:
“Drink blood”
“Eat your own foot”
“Cover yourself in poop”
“Cover yourself in tarantulas”
“Cover yourself in tarantula poop”

Chairman: That’s using your head, Earl! Wait, do tarantulas poop?

Board member: They must. All living things poop, right?

Silence fills the room

Chairman: Gentlemen, I consider this to be a professional environment. I expect 110% from all my employees and I reward that kind of performance. Now you’re telling me that of all the people in this room, no one can tell me whether or not tarantulas poop?

Silence

Chairman: Never mind then, we’ll have to put that one on the back burner for now. Let’s backtrack. I heard “Eat your own foot.” How can we make that work?

Board member: It could be a contest to see who could do it fastest.

Chairman: Hmm, not bad, but not enough fear. We need more fear.

Board member: We can cover their feet in maggots.

Chairman: Hmm, you’re getting somewhere, but not quite there. Hit me with some more ideas.

Other board member: After eating their foot they would have to run away from hungry bears.

Earl: Hungry bears covered in maggots!

Chairman: BINGO! Earl, you're on fire today! That’s round two! Now, onto the big stunt. What’s gonna happen in round three?

Board Members:
“Drive a car off a building.”
“Catch a car falling off a building.”
“Take a long walk off a short pier.”
“Run with scissors.”

Jimmy (frustrated by the madness around him): Well, hell. If they’ve survived this long why not just shoot them in the head?

Chairman: Jimmy! You’ve got it! It’s clean and easy, and people will have to overcome the greatest fear of all to do it! Fear of death! You’re going to do well in this business, Jimmy.

Jimmy smiles, despite the feeling that he's surrounded by very dangerous, very crazy people.

For the longest time, I was on the lookout for an oft-mentioned horror movie called The Beyond. No video rental store ever seemed to have it, and the only version I could find in the stores was the Extra Special Super Duper Edition, which cost far too much for a movie I didn’t know if I’d like or not.

As if in answer to my predicament, a bare-bones $9.99 edition was recently released. I decided to pick it up and give it a shot.

Now, I consider myself a horror movie fan, I go out of my way to watch these movies, which normally end up being absolute crap. I’ve seen a lot of bad horror movies in my time, and while this is not the worst, it’s pretty high on the list of movies that aren’t just a waste of money, but a waste of time. I not only demand my $9.99 be returned, I also want those 90 minutes of my life back.

Each part is over-acted or under-acted, leading to slow, dream-like scenes which are only laced with tension if you have any idea what is going on. We, the average viewer, do not. Apparently the overall plot and character stories are none of our business. Allegedly, the gate to hell, located under a hotel, has been accidentally opened (by Joe the Plumber), and dead people are coming back to life. People die gruesome deaths, but no one seems to pay attention to them for the first half of the movie. This in itself is surreal. The bodies are piling up and it’s just business as usual at the hotel. “ Joe’s face was clawed off when he was in the basement. Hmm, must be rats. I’m going to bring him to the morgue then I’ll continue painting the kitchen.”

I’m at a loss for words when it comes to describing the rest. There’s a blind girl who can somehow run down stairs without tripping, a warlock who had the key to hell but was covered in boiling plaster before he could use it, a book about hell that keeps appearing and disappearing, and a six shooter that fires ten bullets.

And what kind of sick fetish does that Fulci guy have with eyeball trauma? I’ve seen two of his movies for a grand total of four kills involving gratuitous eyeball damage, and three of them where in this movie. I never thought I’d say this about a horror movie, but “Stop it, it’s just gross.”

All the effects in the movie like that; uselessly excessive. Every cut, scrape, and bodily fluid is rendered in so much detail that you not only feel like you’re looking at a car crash, but you’re also involved in one. The camera lingers as we watch gallons of fluid pumped out through every natural orifice, and plenty of new ones, during meaningless scenes that stoutly refuse to end. I’m not against this kind of craziness, they did it right in movies like Dead Alive, but damn! Dead Alive was meant to be excessive. This movie is excessive in order to cover up the rotting stench of the writing and acting.

This movie is probably so fondly remembered by some because it is an avid student of, if not the founder of, the school of “If you can’t do it well, do it gratuitously.”

Beyond, you suck. Thumbs down.

Alright, let’s see here, I’ve done 20 minutes on the treadmill and 25 crunches. Well, that’s pretty much the gamut of exercises I know how to do. Let’s take a look at one of these weightlifting contraptions here.

Hmm, Lats, Delts, Pecs… Oooh, Biceps! I wanna work on my biceps.

I sit down on the machine and read the instructions, which begin by telling me I’m sitting on the machine backwards.

OK, now I’m sitting the right way… extend arms, rest elbows on pad, blah blah blah. OK, here we go… UNG! Hmm, too much weight, let’s see… it’s at sixty pounds… how about forty. UHG! Still too much. How about thirty? UNG! Oh come on. How about… hey, it goes from thirty to ten! What the hell? Alright, ten pounds.

I do one rep.

Ha! This isn’t so bad. I can already feel the burn. Woo hoo! Two… three… four… fi… fi… UNG!... four and a half… fi… fiv… five!

I all but let go of the handle bars and it drops back into the start position with a loud clank. I cringe at the sound.

OK, it’s OK. I’m alright, the machine’s not broken, and I doubt anyone heard… um… they’re all looking at me…

Well, great workout session, Jon. Time to hit the showers.

ZOOM

I like getting that "fresh from the dentist" feeling at home; so every night I jab sharp metal objects into my gums.

I know it's just my opinion, but I think "Scrubs" really is the best show on television right now. Tuesdays at 9:30 on NBC. Do yourself a favor and watch it.

For lack of anything better to do, I joined a gym.

It had been a long time coming. To say the least, it’s taken these many years just to get over my passionate hatred of “gym class.” Now that I’ve finally put aside my animosity for volleyball, dodgeball, and running the mile after my lunch period, I think I can now walk into a weight room and not break down crying.

The second reason for the delay is also the same reason that I need to join a gym in the first place. I’m a lazy ass. There’s a conundrum for you.

Exercise has always seemed to be the answer to all my problems; low energy, low self confidence, general depression, getting chicks. The only thing holding me back has been… well… the gym’s way over there.

I weighed myself at home yesterday. I think if any one thing influenced my flight to the gym it was that. I stepped on the scale and, once again, was convinced it was broken. I weighed myself twice, and then proceeded to weigh household objects just to be sure the scale was right. I fully expected the scale to tell me that the gallon of milk I put on it was 30 pounds overweight. Oddly enough, it wasn’t.

It appears that those ten pushups I do every other month aren’t doing the trick. Go figure. I had to think; since I can’t commit to a regular exercise program on my own, how am I going to get in shape? Of course, spend money on it! Knowing I have cash invested in something would certainly spur me to get my money’s worth.

Believe me, if I paid for all the bullets in the gun, you better keep shooting me until it’s empty. You know what I mean?

So I selected a gym, went in, and paid a surprisingly high startup fee, and a surprisingly low monthly fee and I now have access to over 50 exercise machines that I have no idea how to use.

I asked the good looking girl at the front desk if there were any classes for someone… let’s say a friend of mine… who doesn’t know anything at all about reps, target heart rate, or exercise in general. She kindly told me I could sign up, or my friend could sign up (wink wink, nudge nudge, know what I mean?) for an introduction class.

So, when all was said and done, I was a member of a gym. I got a membership card, workout record sheet, and a free t-shirt. When I got home I tried the t-shirt on. It was a great fit. I hadn’t done any exercise, but I was already looking more muscular, more manly, and… wait… are my nipples showing through?

During lunch with one of my co-workers, he inquired how things went on my “hot date,” that I had mentioned the other day. I gave him the honest truth; that I thought it went well, but nonetheless, the girl never returned my e-mails or phone calls.

He said something along the lines of “When you fall off the horse you just gotta get up and try again.”

At the time I simply nodded and said things like, “That’s sound advice.”

In reality I wanted to say

You know what? I already did that, I already got back on the horse. And then the horse threw me off again, so I got again. And he threw me off again, and I got back on again. Now the horse has thrown me off, like, 20 god damned times and now I’m starting to think, “You know what, fuck the horse!”

But I just kept my mouth shut and went on eating my balogna sandwich.

Dear Mastercard,

It is my great privilege to notify you that your credit card offer has been pre-rejected!

That’s right, you qualify right NOW for absolutely NO money from me, NO paperwork, and NO interest for at least 90 days!

Think of the freedom, think of the peace of mind, think of the money you’ll save on stamps! Don’t wait, act now and throw away any future letters to me!

Sincerely,
The Jonathan Corporation

Sorry I haven’t been updating. Life's been shitty lately. I promise there’s more funny stuff on the way.

Friday the 14th

Tammy: Oh Ned, that was amazing.

Ned: Yea, I know I’m good.

Tammy: Oh no, the lights went out.

Ned: Must be the generator.

Tammy: I’ll get it

Ned: Don’t leave, you’re so sexy.

Tammy: What does that have to do with anything?

Ned and Tammy have sex again

Tammy: I’m really worried about the lights going out like that… and that screaming we heard.

Ned: That was you.

Tammy: No, I mean the screaming we heard from outside.

Ned: Oh that, that was just the birds. This is a camp you know.

Tammy: Still, I think I should go fix the generator.

Tammy gets up to leave.

Ned: Aren’t you going to put any clothes on?

Tammy: Nah, to much work.

Ned: Here, take this flashlight, it’s dark out there.

Tammy: No, I’ll be alright with this candle.

Ned: You’re so sexy with that candle.

Tammy: What?

Ned and Tammy have sex again.

Tammy: I heard that screaming again.

Ned: It’s the birds, damnit.

Tammy: That’s not the birds, I distinctly heard someone scream, “NED, TAMMY, RUN! THERE’S A KILLER IN THE CAMP!”

Ned: There’s squirrels out there too, squirrels make weird noises at night.

Tammy: I’m going to fix the generator.

Tammy lights her candle and goes out the door. Ned lays back, lights a joint, drinks half a bottle of Jack Daniels, snorts a line of coke and then shoots heroin.

Tammy returns, screaming and covered in blood.

Tammy: Oh my God! Tom, Cindy, Bill, Rod, Bucky, Mindy, Earl, Leroy and Candy are dead.

Ned: Tammy, Tammy, Tammy, you’re stressed out, it’s all in your head.

Tammy: But they’re dead! They’ve been slashed, drowned, beheaded, strangled, drowned, dismembered, slashed and thrown out a window. Except for Earl. It looks like he just died in his sleep.

Ned: Damn… you’re so sexy covered in barbecue sauce like that.

Ned and Tammy have sex again.

Tammy: That was amazing, but everyone else is dead.

Ned: Everyone else? How many of the others have you had sex with?

Tammy: No, I mean they’ve all been killed.

Ned: Tammy, silly Tammy. Why don’t I go check it out.

Tammy: No, he’ll kill you too!

Ned: I’ve got nothing to worry about, I’ve got my pocket knife.

Tammy: Here, take the machine gun.

Ned: I’m OK, there‘s nothing I can‘t handle with my pocket knife.

Tammy: Damnit Ned, take the fucking machine gun. It’s right here, and it’s still loaded.

Ned: Tammy, crazy Tammy, I’ll be fine.

***

Police reports recount that the Caboose Lake killer turned himself in the morning following the night of the massacre. When police asked him why he turned himself in, he told them, “My work is done. I’ve finally killed all the stupid ones.”

Don't Texas Chainsaw Massacre My Heart

While watching G's cats I've been having my own personal "Butt Numb-A-Thon," this weekend, and right now my ass could take a bullet and I wouldn't feel it.

Highlights from this weekend include "Millineum Actress," (snore, pretty magical and all that, but really just a dull love story), "The Bunker," (mediocre psychological horror film), "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" (The new version with Jessica Biel, meow), and "Ginger Snaps 3" (good flick, but I refuse to call it "Ginger Snaps Back," that's a shitty title). I also rented Crash Bandicoot Twinsanity, and was not dissapointed. It's no Ratchet and Clank, but it does all the right things.

Quite different from last weekend's yard sale madness.

I remember last weekend, as I crawled up onto the roof to retrieve the foam dart I had accidentally shot up there while "testing" the dart gun I was selling, looking down at our little yard sale and thinking, "Damn, we're getting rid of a lot of shit." And sell that shit we did.

Then, I thought, wouldn't it be an embarrassing way to die, falling off the roof, crumpled into a ball between the old bookcase and the pink chair we had dragged out to the driveway, Nerf dart in hand. I climbed down with haste and, thankfully, didn't fall.

I lead an exciting life.

Two Dollars

I had the strangest dream last night.

I dreamed that someone had stolen my van, but they didn’t drive away in it, instead they waited outside the house until other cars drove by, and then rammed into the passing cars. I watched helplessly as cars were broadsided, rear ended, and smashed head on. I didn’t care much about my van, I was certain that now would be a great time to trade it in for another car. I was only angry, angry at the madman who was driving it.

Eventually he got tired of his game, or the van finally died on him, whichever. When he got out and went back to his own car, I confronted him. He told me that he was the paper boy. He was angry at my family because we weren’t acting more like the family he created in “The Sims” video game. There you have it, violence caused by video games. Forget Grand Theft Auto, the solvent that would destroy the bonds of society would, in fact, be The Sims. He told me that if we hadn’t raised our “need meter” and earned 100 more “simoleans” by the end of the week, he would do it again, and he’d be watching us.

The dream ended shortly thereafter. There was a stretch where I was trying to continue on with my life, after salvaging my car, and the paperboy kept following me.

I woke up in a cold sweat. I should probably cut back on the Mexican food.

Today was a strange day, work wise. I had all these little projects that only lasted fifteen minutes at a time. Looking back on my time sheet, I only spent more than 45 minutes on two things, and one of them was lunch.

When I got home, my dad had already managed to install new wheels on the lawnmower. The lawnmower, much like my car, had come down with a bad case of wheels-falling-off. This had happened about a week ago, and my dad had gotten two new rear wheels. I helped him to install the wheels, which is, I’m sure, why they fell off again when I went to mow the lawn yesterday. I was certain the problem with the wheels was that the hole in the lawnmower was not big enough to fit the spacers on the axle. I told my dad this. He didn’t believe me. My dad, god knows I love him, refuses to be wrong about some things. Most of the things he refuses to be wrong about involve home and garden care. To his credit, he’s usually right. But when he’s wrong, well, he tends to go into denial. I tried a few times to explain my “crazy” theory, but in the end I just kept my mouth shut, hoping that he’d give up or the problem would magically fix itself. He bought the proper hardware today, so I was back to mowing the lawn, which brings me so much joy…. Not!

People don’t use “...Not!” much anymore. I think it went out with “Well… duh!”

And another thing. I use this Clearasil “Ice Wash,” on my face. When I first starting using it, I felt the cool rush of clean on my skin. It really felt cold as ice. It was a groovy feeling. But I realized tonight, I don’t feel it anymore. The cool rush has gone. I accidentally dropped some on my foot, and felt cool rush there. Apparently my face has built up an immunity to the cool rush. I’m a little concerned about this.

Wow… isn’t life exciting?

I hurt my finger pretty bad at the doctor’s office on Friday. It’s still a little sore.

I had arrived for my appointment a half-hour early. My new insurance, which, thankfully, covers more than just acts of god and freak kangaroo related injuries (which is more than I can say about my last insurance), had finally kicked in. I was certain there would be paperwork, mountains of paperwork. I imagined I’d be sitting in the waiting room for half an hour, filling out invasive forms on a clipboard with one of those triangular pens that the drug companies give away.

Much to my surprise, the entire process is now streamlined. They simply scanned my insurance card, and we were done. Thanks to modern technology, patients can now spend more time waiting for the doctor. So now I was a half-hour early for an appointment that the doctor would be a half-hour late for. I read one entire issue of Entertainment Weekly and half of one issue of People.

I found Entertainment Weekly to be mildly entertaining, offering brief snippets on Hollywood, music, and even literature. On the other hand, you cannot fathom the immensity of the fuck I did not give about the crap they publish in People.

You want to read an issue of People? Let me sum up the a year’s worth of “news.” J. Lo, divorced, married, divorced, married, divorced. Paris Hilton, wrote a book from the “point of view” of her dog. Readers are convinced that the dog actually wrote it. Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp, still so “dreamy,” after all these years. Jessica Simpson’s nipples, releasing their own album this fall.

Anyway, I was finally called in. The nurse rushed me into the examination room and took my blood pressure. Then she left. And I was waiting again. And waiting. There were no magazines in there. I was forced to seek amusement in thumb wrestling myself.

Eventually I stood up started poking around at the various novelties around the room. I pressed the model of the lower spine against my back, just to see if it was to scale. I inflated and deflated the blood pressure sleeve twice. I began poking around in the drawers. Open backed gowns, rubber gloves, tongue depressors. At that moment, there was a knock and the door was opened. I slammed the drawer full of tongue depressors closed, and in doing so smashed my finger. I let out a grunt, but managed to hide my pain when the doctor peeked his head in.

“I’ll be right with you.” He said.

I gave him a smile and nod, and then sat back down, nursing my finger. I decided not to explore anymore, I had been taught a lesson.

Dear Alumni,

We hope you have had time to enjoy your summer.

As you know, the new school year is starting. New and returning students are excited about the opportunities and experiences of the coming year. It wasn’t very long ago that you yourself were a student, eager to learn and get involved in your University.

Fortunately, you still have the opportunity to get involved. That’s right, you can continue to give to the school that has given you so much.

We may not have paid for your books. We may have overcharged you for housing. We may have made you take classes that had nothing to do with your major. We may have charged you for course credits you didn’t take. We may have tried to make you stay an extra year for no good reason. We may not have been any help in finding you an internship. And we even charged you that “Resident Activity Fee,” that actually went towards our new automated coffee machine. But we provided you with an “Education.” It’s time to repay the favor.

In all due honesty, we lost your tuition money. Well, we didn’t loose it, we know where it went. We spent it all on cheap whores and blow. But the point is, all the money you gave us, the money for which took out loans that you’ll be paying off for the next ten years, is used up. It’s gone. The account is in overdraft.

Now we realize it’s only been two years, but by our estimates, you now have a job in the <insert course of study here> field and are pulling in a six figure salary. This assumption is based on student surveys, population polls, and wild speculation.

So if it wouldn’t be too inconvenient, please take some time out from running your multi-million dollar company and boinking your supermodel wife and make a donation to our simple little “Alumni Fund.”

Thank you.

Sincerely,
College University

P.S. Pass this letter on to five friends by midnight or you will have seven years bad luck! It’s true!

This evening we’re going to be driving down to Connecticut to visit Jen.

This afternoon my mother walked into my room and handed me an ABBA cd. I gave her a quizzical look.

“Take the wrapping off that for me, please.” She said. “We can listen to it on the way down!”

This is going to be a long fucking drive.

Somewhere along the line it was assumed that all the bologna slices in the house were mine. These crazy people that live here keep asking for my permission to have some bologna.

I’m not angry or anything, I’m almost a little flattered. But, did I miss a meeting? When was I appointed the keeper of the bologna? I don’t run around tagging each slice before releasing it into the wild. You can take as much bologna as you want, whenever you want. I won’t show up with handcuffs and my badge from the Department of Ambiguous Meat Products if you want to have a sandwich. Go ahead, knock yourself out.

P.S. bologna bologna bologna bologna bologna bologna bologna bologna bologna

Excerpt from Jon’s Neighbors’ Dog’s Day Planner

5:30AM Wake up

6:00AM Bark

6:30AM Eat

7:00AM Go walkies, Bark

7:30AM See next door guy leave for work, bark at him.

9:00AM Bark, raise pitch

10:00AM Find something interesting in the back yard. Bark at it.

12:00PM Sit in window, bark at passing cars.

2:00PM Bark

3:00PM Leave doo doo on neighbor’s lawn. Bark at it.

5:30PM See next door guy come home from work. Run up to him. Jump on him. Spaz out. Bark.

6:30PM Eat

7:00PM Go Walkies, Bark

8:00PM Sky going dark. Barking might make it light again.

9:00PM Not working, sky still dark. Bark louder.

10:00PM Go sleepy

In an already stellar display of quality record keeping, my new insurance company has assigned me a geriatric specialist as my primary care doctor.

Imagine my shock when I tried to make an appointment, and the secretary asked me if I was over 65.

“Um… no, should I be.”
“Well, yes, Dr (NAME) is a geriatrician.”
“A what now?”
“A doctor for senior citizens.” (I could tell she wanted to say ‘an old-people doctor’).
“Oh… then I guess I won’t need to make an appointment right now.”

Yea, oops.

Letters from Doom (Final)
July 29, 2104

Dear Mom and Dad,

So, it seems that somebody, and the company won’t name any names, has unleashed the forces of hell in Delta Labs. Now my weekend is completely shot.

Apparently, and I’ve gotten this information secondhand, the teleporters that they were experimenting with crossed over into another dimension. This dimension, let’s call it “Hell,” was all fire and brimstone and filled with a large number of creatures, let’s say “Demons,” who were very concerned with killing all of us. The rest of the details are kind of sketchy, but I’m guessing that we can thank the scientists for forgetting to close the door to hell.

Today I was in the bathroom when the ground shook. At first I thought it was because I had those burritos last night, but it happened again and there was all this screaming and yelling outside.

I cleaned up and went out into the hall. The lights were flickering, people were running around, and, I kid you not, there were flaming skulls flying though the air.

I only had my standard issue pop gun on me, so I ran back to my room to dip into the massive arms stash I had accumulated over the last week. On the way I was confronted by a six eyed demon with long fangs and sharp claws. I emptied a clip into him with my pistol, but he seemed unharmed. I then proceeded to run up to him and beat him to death with my flashlight. Let me tell you, that little flashlight did some damage.

After dispatching the demon and getting to my weapons cache, I proceeded to marine command.

Things have been downhill from there. I’ve run into very few people who haven’t been turned into the living dead. I mostly get radio transmissions from my Lieutenant, who is alive (oh... woo hoo.) and heading to Delta Labs, hoping to somehow stop the invasion.

I’ve taken some injuries in the fighting. Fortunately, first aid kits are strewn about, just like the ammo. Right now I’m feeling fine, but I am covered, head to toe, in bandages and pumped full of enough pain killers to put an ox to sleep.

I have no choice but to keep moving and try to help the Lieutenant. I’m going to show these beasts that they picked the wrong dimension to invade. I’m going to give them hell! Well, I guess they already had hell. I’m going to give them… heaven! No, wait, that doesn’t make sense. I’m going to kill them good! Yea!

Love,
-Jon

Letters From Doom (2)
July 23 2140

Dear Mom and Dad,

Strange things have been happening in Mars lately.

For starters, I think the number of people going completely insane is higher than it should be. I’m no expert on the subject, but roughly one out of every four employees in Mars Colony 2 has gone loony within the last week. I really don’t like those odds. I checked four of my friends, and what do you know, one of them was freaking crazy!

This has led to a severe shortage of proper… crazy people supplies. Makeshift straightjackets have been constructed from sweaters and an industrial stapler. Crazy people have had to bunk up three or four to a cell. I’m even sharing my bunk with some crazy guy who rants about demons and hellfire. They just came in on Monday, strapped him into the top bunk, and told me to watch his bedpan.

With the exception of “Crazy” Bill Johnson, who’s just plain crazy, all the new crazy people seem to have the same delusions as my new roommate. They go on and on about armies of demons and the living dead.There have also been a lot of strange sounds and sightings, especially on the lower levels of Delta Labs. The odd scientist or janitor will come back with stories of growling in the dark, or large creatures creeping through the shadows.

Sounds to me like it’s time for a Martian varmint hunt! I mean, you should see the rats we get up here.

Anyway, aside from the strange noises, monster sightings and, you know, crazy people, things are pretty normal, I guess. I’ve got to change my bunkmate’s bed pan, then I’m on duty until 3am, so good night and have a good week.

-Jon

Letters From Doom

July 18, 2140
Dear Mom and Dad,

Greetings from Mars Colony 2!

I never imagined that straight out of boot camp I’d land this job. I mean, some guys from my original unit are still peacekeeping in the Middle East back on Earth. Not me, I set my sights high and now here I am, part of the Mars security team!

They must have been impressed with my record, because, as you know, I was hired on the spot. They didn’t even ask me any questions. I just walked in and BAM, “You’re hired.” No background check, no drug screening, nothing.

The job is not without its faults though. It’s just some little things that bug me.

Because of defects in the power grid, the lights are constantly going out. Every few hours or so everything will just go dark. It’s getting to be quite a pain. Just now, for example, just as I finished writing “…part of the Mars security team,” The lights went out. I even heard some screaming down the hall. Probably some of the scientists playing grab-ass in the dark.

This might not be so annoying if I were given the standard issue night vision goggles that EVERYONE on Earth has. Mom, even you have a set of these goggles. Unfortunately not. The only thing I got as part of the standard equipment is a dinky little flashlight. I mean, it runs on “D” batteries, for crying out loud. Do they even make “D” batteries any more?

The other standard equipment is pathetic too. All I got is civilian issue armor and a tiny little X-35 pistol. Dad, you know guns, and I’m sure you know what a spectacular piece of crap the X-35 is. I couldn’t put down a cat with this thing without emptying two clips.

On the bright side, ammo and bigger weapons are strewn about everywhere. I really don’t know why they leave high impact firearms just laying around, but they do. They don’t seem to belong to anyone, they’re not even locked. Just the other day I sat down in the cafeteria and accidentally kicked over a rocket launcher that someone had left under the table.

Overall, things are fine and mostly uneventful. I need to get going now, so I’ll talk to you guys later! Give Sparky my love.

-Jon

Anyone else remember those candy cigarettes? They came in a little box that looked like cigarette packaging. They were little mint sticks with one end colored to look like the filter.

Man, those were just wrong.

Things have been pretty boring lately, but that’s certainly not a bad thing.

Work has been fairly busy, but the day goes by pretty fast. That’s a good sign that you like what you’re doing. Well, either that or you’re blacking out during the day. So I might be enjoying my job, or I might have brain trauma.

I’m still having trouble getting my ass out of bed in the morning. I’ve stopped using the alarm on my clock and switched to the radio. It doesn’t get me up any faster, but it doesn’t piss my parents off.

I have the radio set to a news station. You’d think that by listening to it each morning, even though I am mostly asleep, I would at least absorb some news through osmosis. Sadly, I haven’t. By the time I get out of bed all I’ve managed to retain is the fact that there’s a blowout sale at Carpet Warehouse.

I’ve been spending a lot of my free time this week playing Doom 3. It’s pretty kick-ass. I had to turn down all the fancy graphic settings a little bit to get it to run smoothly on my machine, but it still looks fantastic. I try not to buy a game right when it comes out because that’s when it’s at its most expensive, and the price always drops, but when Doom 3 came out I caved like a little girl at a pony convention. It gives me great pleasure to know that I still have the computing horsepower to run it, even if it is at medium settings.

Aside from work, sleep, and Doom, I haven’t been doing much else. I occasionally feel that I should be doing something more productive in society. From time to I stand up and say, “I should be doing charity work, or crafting something with my bare hands, or even exercise!” But then I sit back down, panting heavily.

At Electronics Boutique there are certain games that have a sticker on them reading "Free With Trade-In, Ask Us How." Well, I asked them how. The clerk told me that if I trade in enough games to equal the value of the game with the sticker on it, then I can have that game for "Free." This seemed pretty fucking obvious. I looked at him and said, "Well, for the record, if I trade in enough dollar bills to equal the value of that game, I can have that game free too."

He didn't see the humor in it. It was then that I realized that I had become an asshole mall customer. I apologize, but it just had to be said. Those stickers are pointless.

City of Heroes

Registrar: Hello, and welcome to Paragon City! How may I help you today?

Jon: Hi, I’d like to become a super hero.

Registrar: Oh, another super hero, how… wonderful. Well then, let’s start with your origin.

Jon: Well, I’m from New Hampshire, I went to school at…

Registrar: No no no, your super hero origin.

Jon: Oh, um, I was bitten by a radioactive spider.

Registrar: ZZZZ ::snork:: oh, I’m sorry, I must have been overcome by boredom there. What was that you said?

Jon: Well, uh… my um… my mother was a… radioactive spider.

Registrar: ZZZZ Wha, or sorry, did you say spider?

Jon: … ferret… my mother was a radioactive ferret.

Registrar: Now we’re talking! So what’s your power?

Jon: I can leap buildings in a single bound!

Registrar: ZZZ

Jon: Super speed?

Registrar: I’ll tell you what, wait here and I’m going to go get some people from the D.C. Comics legal department and you can tell them what your powers are.

Jon: No, wait! I can… um… shoot blasts of… ice from my fingertips.

Registrar: Hmm, not bad. It’s been done before, but not very well. Now, are you male or female?

Jon: Excuse me!? Can’t you tell? I’m all man, baby.

Registrar: You can be a male or female superhero, regardless of your real life gender. You can pick either one, it makes no difference in regards to strengths and weaknesses.

Jon: Oh, well then, I guess I’ll try being a female.

Registrar: ::snicker::

Jon: Is there a problem with that?

Registrar: No no. No problem, ::giggle:: Now, um, what will m’ lady be called?

Jon: … how about… Arctica?

Registrar: Taken.

Jon: Anne Arctica.

Registrar: Taken

Jon: Ice Queen, Lady Freeze, Blue Ice

Registrar: Taken, taken, and oh, wait… nope, taken.

Jon: Lady… Arctica?

Registrar: Congratulations, sir, you are now Lady Arctica!

Jon: Thank you. Well, I guess I’ll go out and start fighting crime.

Registrar: Ahem. Not dressed like that you’re not.

Jon: What’s wrong with my clothes?

Registrar: Those jeans, those sneakers; hardly befitting of Lady Arctica! Here, try these.

Jon changes into a slinky leather outfit with thigh-high boots.

Jon: Um… I don’t think I’m comfortable with this.

Registrar: You’ve made your decision, if you’re going to play the part of Lady Arctica, you must look like Lady Arctica.

Jon: But this leather thong is seriously riding up on me, and this corset keeps slipping down and exposing my nipples. How am I supposed to fight crime like this?

Registrar: Such is the price a female hero must pay. Now get out there and bring some justice to this lawless city!

Jon walks out, constantly adjusting the outfit so that his crotch area doesn’t pop out.

I’ll try not to give anything away, but if you have any intention of seeing “The Village,” please do not read this post until after you’ve seen it.

I think that maybe the reason I loved the first three M. Night Shyamalan movies is the exact same reason that I didn’t love the fourth one. The reason; he and I think alike.

I don’t know how else I could explain that I could predict what was going to happen with an eerie accuracy. Even the signature Shyamalan twist was no mystery to me this time around. With very little indication of what was going to happen, I just knew. When I thought about it afterwards, it just seemed to me that I knew because that’s what I would have done, given the basic plot structure, and knowing that there had to be some kind of shocker.

Maybe if some of you have seen the film, let me know if you thought it was too predictable.

Chris said it best when he said that Shyamalan needs to make a straightforward movie, something where everyone isn’t expecting his usual shocking twist. I tend to agree, although I think his original screenplays are some of the best in Hollywood, I’d like to see him apply his skills to an adaptation or a remake.

Though it was a bit of a disappointment, this did not sink the movie alone.

Another problem was the acting. We had a collection of A-List actors giving C-List performances. All of Shyamalan’s previous films have been A-List actors giving A-List performances, I don’t understand what changed here. I guess everyone was trying too hard to emulate the old fashioned dialogue and just sounding ridiculous in the process.

And the final culprit? The theater. The movie theater seriously hampered the enjoyment of my film. The temperature was ice cold, making me long for the warm cloaks and crackling fire places on screen. The sound too was off kilter. The commercials were so loud they nearly shattered my glasses, but the dialogue in the film was barely audible. Things like these can make even a good movie a bad experience.

Wednesday at work I had to proof read a menu. It was a gourmet menu too, so it had strange words I’ve never heard before, like “compote” and “chutney.” When I finally got to a misspelled word I didn’t even know it. They had misspelled “spinach,” and I was honestly sitting there going, “What the hell is a “Spiach?”

Catch you later, Spi-ach-es!

"Dames and Bullets"
A Jack Marlowe Adventure I Started Writing Because it Was a Slow Day at Work
(working title)

Chapter 1:

Jack looked up from his newspaper when he heard the sound outside his door.  It was the unmistakable click of a woman in heels.  But, something wasn’t right, it was out of place somehow.  Then it hit him; this was the men’s room, wasn’t it?

Panic raced through him like wildfire.  Had he absentmindedly walked into the wrong restroom?  It wouldn’t be the first time.  Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time this month.  But he was almost certain he was in the right room.  Wasn’t he?
               
“Mr. Marlowe,” came a sultry voice from the outside the stall. “I have a job for you.”
               
 Jack shifted uncomfortably on the seat.  “Um… I’m a little busy.  Can’t this wait?”
               
“I’m afraid I don’t have any more time.” She responded.  “You have to meet me at the warehouse by the pier tonight at 8 o’clock.  Please don’t be late.”
               
Jack was stunned to silence.  There was a slight pause, and then the click of heels again.  The ancient restroom door squealed open and moaned as it slowly closed behind her.
               
Silence filled the room again.

“Wait!” yelled Jack from the crapper.  “Which pier?”

I’m glad the temp job ended when it did, I was starting to exhibit that strange behavior that I’m prone to when I have a basic office job.

For example, I had become a kind of paperclip elitist. It was one of those things when you deal with paper clips all day and you wind up with a drawer full of them and you think, “Gee, I should really thin out these paper clips.” I would spend occasional moments sifting through my growing mountain of paperclips, weeding out the small ones, the ones that were bent out of shape, or those crappy plastic ones I didn’t like. Those who didn’t make the cut were dumped into the massive box of paperclips in the utility closet. Those who stayed served me well.

Soon, I was an evil paperclip dictator, ruling with an iron fist over my hand picked super-army of paperclips. It wasn’t long before the ranks had swelled to sufficient numbers and we were ready to siege the adjacent desk (uninhabited by anyone, but still a worthy conquest).

At that moment, before my paperclips and I laid claim to the land given to us by destiny, I looked over my empire and thought, “Shit, I really need to get out of this job.”

Fortunately, that was my last day. The adjacent desk would be left unconquered; it remained the sole property of the staple remover and rubber finger thingy that sat proudly in the left hand drawer.

I would live to fight another day.

Last week I got a new job and Lyme Disease. I don’t think one had anything to do with the other, but now I’m being extra cautious.

I was actually a bit reluctant to give up my temp job for this new graphic design gig. I know how crazy that sounds. But, the temp people had given me a desk and everything. I’ve never had a real desk. It was kind of sweet.

Of course, after two seconds of thinking like this, my brain kicked in. Even though the pay was the same, the new job was better in every other way. I would have a desk. I would also have medical and dental benefits. Paid vacation. Sick days. This was a better job. Simple as that. Rock beats scissors.

That struck me as kind of funny, getting the same pay. We’re talking about a professional design job that pays the same salary as a temp job that could be done by a trained ferret. I must be at some weird crossroad between a low paying professional job and a high paying temp job. I can’t complain though.

And as for Lyme Disease; my mother, the nurse, was very interested in a suspicious rash on my arm that wasn’t going away. She did a little research and suggested that it could be, among other things, Lyme Disease. That really made my day.

Rather than wait it out, we decided that I should show the doctor. But on the holiday weekend, that would have been impossible. Rather than make an appointment during the week and miss more work, I decided to go to the ER.

I had the impression that I would be rushed through the ER while doctors and nurses circled around me yelling things like “STAT!” and “50cc’s!” In actuality, it was a slow and boring process. I signed in and waited. I filled out the insurance form and waited. I saw one nurse and waited. I saw another nurse and waited, and waited, and waited. Apparently after seeing that last nurse, they had to retrieve the tools for a blood test from the same place where they get my car parts.

When it was all said and done I was given some antibiotics and told to call in on Friday for the results of my test. So, no, I’m not actually certain I have Lyme Disease. But everyone, even the ER nurses, seem to think it’s a strong possibility. It’s just not the kind of thing you ignore, even if it’s only a possibility.

It’s little funny moments that make me love my mom even more.

The other night, for example. While driving with my mom and my dad down route 3 in Merrimack, we passed a certain gentleman’s club. My mom pointed to the sign and said, “Look, Jon, that’s a comedy place, it says they have amateur night every Wednesday! You could do your act there!”

“Um… mom… it’s not that kind of amateur…”

I think if she had read the whole thing, she would have wondered why stand-up comedians would do “Shower Shows.”

The first thing I felt as I walked into the funeral parlor was not sadness or regret, but bitter familiarity. How many wakes and funerals had I been to in the past few years? It seemed like we were in a constant state of losing someone dear to us. My uncle two years ago, my grandfather the year before that, my grandmother the year before that.

It was my uncle this time, my mother’s other brother. Like his brother Tom before him, Uncle Bill was stricken with cancer. It was an arduous and painful descent and, in a way, I’m glad it’s over. I’m glad that he’s not suffering any more.

We were close, but not as close as I wish we were. I wish I could have done more for him, especially as his health deteriorated. He was such a strong, proud man. I felt helpless, and always at a loss for words. I could barely talk to him near the end. I just didn't know what to say.

Now all I can do is remember him, and keep him in my heart. That's something I know I can do.

My Uncle Bill; the artist, the craftsman, the sharpshooter, the husband, father, and brother.

May the Road rise up to meet you,
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
And the rain fall soft upon your fields.
Until we meet again,
May you be held
In the hollow of God’s Hand!

Today at work I discovered, in a process I can’t go into much detail about, this fun little fact.

The Girl Scout organization in Erlanger, KY is called, and I quote, “The Girl Scout Council of Licking Valley.”

Granted, I have a dirty mind, but there are just some places that you shouldn’t establish a Girl Scout council. Licking Valley is very high on that list.

Don't believe me?

This will go down in history as the week that I almost became a used car salesman. Yea, let that sink in a little. Used car salesman.

When you’re unemployed and eating rejection for breakfast, some of the craziest things start to make sense. After a month of job hunting I was willing to accept any graphic design job no matter what the pay. After two months I was willing to accept any job at all, no matter what the pay. After three months I actually started thinking, “Gee, those car salesmen must make good money.”

Things were getting desperate. I was spending 10 hours each day following leads, cold calling companies in the phone book, and sending resumes to anything with a pulse. The next logical move would have been to sit out on a street corner with a cardboard sign that said, “Will Work For Work.”

As fate would have it, I stumbled two ads in the Sunday Help Wanted section. Both promised and generous benefits (something I’ve been lacking), and excellent income (also something I’ve been lacking). One was a Toyota dealership, the other a Ford. If I knew anything about cars I might have preferred one over the other; but the sad fact is that I know nothing. I’d be lucky if I managed to properly pronounce Toyota (“Why yes, I’m here to sell “Too-oota” cars!”).

I went to both dealerships, on Monday and Tuesday respectively. It was apparently a slow week for car sales. I remember the sensation I got at both dealerships. It was the odd feeling of being watched from the moment I pulled into the parking lot. It was the salespeople, acting casual but otherwise crowding at the window like puppies at a pet store. You want to see heartbreak, walk into a car dealership and tell them you’re not there to buy a car. Wow.

The rest is kind of hazy. I remember filling out the usual work history and background check forms, speaking to people with various English speaking skills, and walking away thinking, “Oh God, what the bloody hell am I doing?” In both cases I had left on the same premise. The job was actually offered to me right then and there, and I said, “Um, just give me one day to think about it.”

I didn’t call either dealership back on Tuesday night, like I said I would. I was hesitating, but at the same time I was ready to sell cars. There simply wasn’t any other option.

I got three calls the next morning. All three temp agencies that I had signed up with had a job ready for me… after one to three months of nothing, all three suddenly had work. That kind of blew my mind. I had to think for a few minutes. Dull office job for meager pay, or selling cars as if my entire salary depended on it… I called back the temp agency that offered the most pay and told them I was the man they were looking for.

P.S. I was just joking before. I know how to pronounce Toyota.

I haven’t had much to say lately. My life has become a death race to find a job. I have been searching, posting and mailing in all categories, not just graphic design. Once again I find myself copiously reaffirmed that no one wants me… for anything. It’s like I’m trying to get a date, but there’s an evil head growing out of my neck that tries to bite anyone who comes near. I can’t even get the jobs I’d settle for.
(“Dear Sir, with unveiled excitement I look forward to starting my fast-paced career as a file clerk.”)

Honestly though, there still are a handful of jobs I won’t do, including telemarketing and that job where you have to stick your hand up a cow’s ass (you know, from that movie). I guess I can’t be picky. But if those were my last two options and I had to choose one, I certainly would have no problem spending all day elbow deep in cow.

Today I was cold-calling companies in the phone book, looking for possible graphic design openings. One such company was called "Rapid Response Marketing." Nobody answered the phone. I thought that was pretty ironic.

More want ads that make me wonder:

Bridal Sales
For lonely men who have the money.

Firearms Description Writer
When you've absolutely got to kill every motherfucker in the room, accept no substitute.

Family Worker
Don't let anyone tell you that being in a family isn't a job.

The auto service station was sketchy. Offering state inspections seemed like a ploy to lure you in, like getting a free set of steak knives for ordering a shoddy kitchen appliance that would juice “Anything!”

Of course, it wouldn’t have been a proper state inspection if they didn’t find something wrong. This time it was the tires, the two rear tires. Both were worn out, or so they told me; if I knew any less about cars I wouldn’t even be able to find the rear tires. And, like all good repair shops, the parts and the tires had to be picked up from somewhere else. This further proves my theory that car parts exist in a strange parallel dimension that can be accessed only by sending order forms.

So I spent a good chunk of the afternoon waiting for one of the station employees to pick up the tires and parts from a place across “Town.” (There seemed to be a linguistic misunderstanding where “Town” actually meant “State”).

It wasn’t too long (though it seemed longer) before the tires arrived and work began.

Suddenly there was shouting coming from the mechanics. I looked over to see the van rolling out of the garage. “Good,” I first thought, “They’re finished.”

Then I saw one of the mechanics run up alongside the van. That’s when I realized no one was driving it. My van was rolling out of the garage, towards the street, on its own. A second mechanic followed behind the van, trying not to drop the tail light, attached by a few wires, which he held in his hands.

With speed and skill, the first mechanic whipped open the door and hit the brakes. There was a collective sigh of relief and then, from everyone but me, a few laughs.

I only would have laughed if it got wrecked.

My dad got me that book called, "What Color is Your Parachute?" It's about
being unemployed, job hunting, and getting your dream job. It's sparked a
few ideas for job hunting, but it's really inspired thoughts about other
books.

"What Color Was Your Underwear?" For dealing with crippling fear of job interviews.

"Was That The Plane That Just Exploded?" For job hunters who have no fallback
plan.

“What Color Will I Be After I Smack Into the Ground?” For pessimistic job hunters.

"Did You Even Pack Your Parachute?" For job hunters who have a bad memory.

Use the comments section to post your own ideas too!

God: “Jon, this is God speaking.”

Jon: “Wow! God! What’s up?”

God: “There is a great rain coming, I want you to build a mighty ark and gather the animals of the earth.”

Jon: “Whoa, whoa. How am I going to manage that?”

God: “You will succeed with my blessing.”

Jon: “Oh, man.”

Time passes.

God: “Jon, how’s it going?”

Jon: “Not great, it’s starting to rain and I’ve only finished half the ark and gathered two possums and a rabid squirrel… wow, it’s really pouring now. I must finish the ark before it’s too late!”

The rain stops.

Jon: "What? It stopped."

God: “Snicker, snicker.”

Jon: “Hey, wait a minute, didn’t you make a covenant promising you’d never flood the Earth again?”

God: “HA HA! SUCKER!”

Jon: “God is cruel.”

I wore shorts to work for the first time today. Any spark of a possibility that any of my co-workers finds me attractive was probably extinguished at the sight of my hairy chicken legs. Seriously, it was like a two-for-one sale at a dirty KFC.

Not that I mind. I make it a personal rule never to date anyone at work. Well, that’s not so much a “rule,” as an “observation.” It’s nice to say that you won’t, but it’s really just an excuse because you can’t. That’s probably why I’m not cut out for upper management; it would be waaaay to easy for anyone below me to sleep their way up the ladder. I would be kind of a corporate slut.

When I stepped out of the batting cage last night I looked at Chris and said, “Damn, I suck. It’s a wonder I didn’t hurt myself.” When I woke up this morning, I realized that I had.

I’m not sure of the medical term for it, but in a nutshell, I seem to have pulled my ass muscle. My left butt cheek aches like a mother. And, going to the bathroom has become a very delicate procedure. I think that’s as much as anyone wants to know.

P.S. Happy Mother’s Day!

My brain is a terrible coach. Case in point:

OK, here she comes, just act casual, wait for the right moment, and do just as we rehearsed. Wait for it… wait for it… Now!

Me: “Good morning. You look very nice today.”

Good job. Excellent. Look, she smiled and said, “Thanks.” That’s a very good foundation for-

Me: “I wasn’t sure how to dress today, the weather’s been so crazy.”

What the hell are you doing? Stop talking! Now! Move on. End conversation.

Me: “I was thinking about shorts. I’m really glad I didn’t wear them though, it’s cold in here.”

NOOOOO! Don’t speak! You moron!

Me: “Oops, that’s my phone ringing, see you later.”

You know what… don’t speak… ever.

My dad and I walked in the door at about six o’clock. We had spent the day playing car roulette; the loser being the one who wound up with my car.

He had to bring the van in to the dealer that morning to have the air conditioner looked at, so I followed in the second family car, picked him up, brought him home, let him take the second family car so that my mom could take me to work in my car and take my car to her doctor’s appointment.

Dad was the one who picked me up at 5:30. We went to the dealership on the way home, only to find that the car was not ready. When we got home at six, mom informed us that the dealership had called and told her that repairs to the air conditioner would cost $850 dollars.

I turned to my father, looked him in the eye, and said, “Welcome to my world.”

He didn’t see the humor in it. Can't say I blame him.

By the end of the week I had two band-aids on each hand. Not so much for myself, but to keep from sending letters to clients with telltale blood stains.

My body has become a roadmap of papercuts. It’s all I can do to keep from spouting blood every time I point to something. Kind of like Eric Idle in European Vacation. “Oh sure, you just go up that way ::squirt::”

I suppose as I get more experienced in paper handling I’ll be able to go home at the end of the day not looking like Mr. Orange after the bank robbery.

Oh wow. Two movie jokes. Can I do one more?

So right now I just have to deal with the fact that I look like I’ve been thumb wrestling with Freddy Kruger.

Woo Hoo! Three!

I’m somehow worse at my job this week than I was last week. I suppose it might just be the absence of that “It’s my first week,” cushion. Saying, “It’s my second week,” really doesn’t count for shit.

I know I’m always paranoid that I’m doing worse than I actually am, but people must really be tired of my questions and mistakes by now. I feel bad for the poor lady I work with. She must be using all her willpower to keep from just poking me in the eye.

But I digress. Maybe I am too hard on myself.

To my credit, the job is pretty hard. It’s all paperwork and there are a million details to remember. What pages, which cabinets, which people, how many copies, scans, printouts, signatures, tags, file numbers, stack orders, labels, postage, envelopes, paper clips.

I take that back. It doesn’t sound hard. I’m just a fucking chunk-head.

Can you hear me now? … hello?

Well, I got a cell phone. If you need some ice, I suggest you try looking in hell.

Three months ago, when I was back in my apartment, I would never have imagined myself with a cell. Even with a regular phone, I only got three calls each week; one from my parents, one from my sister, and one from the phone company. What did the phone company want? They wanted to sell me a cell phone.

I recruited my sister, longtime cell phone user, to help me with buying one. Every time I went into a cell phone store on my own, I was assaulted by a salesperson who began humping my leg and spouting nonsensical words like “Anytime Night and Weekend Minutes,” or “Long Distance Roaming Charges.” Jen helped me sort things out, and I am now the proud owner of a T-Mobile phone.

I’m still learning the basics of using it. Right now I can only enter names into my phone book and select the least annoying ring tone (which is to say I’ve turned it off). I’ve set it to vibrate when I receive a call. Now when my back is sore, I go into my room, pick up the house phone, lay down on my cell phone, and repeatedly call myself.

Just kidding. I wouldn’t lay down on my cell phone, it might break. Besides, it’s hard to get back up without having the arm and leg that I used to pay for it.

My heart goes out to the poor kids I see waiting for the school bus every morning. On top of the fact that it’s cold, they’re waiting for the infernal school bus, which was my own personal hell. Imagine an overcrowded prison on wheels where everyone wanted to shank you. That’s what a school bus is like.

So work’s been alright. My only complaint is my back. It’s been sore no matter what position I sit or stand in all day. I only get relief when I go home and lie down or sit in my uber-ergonomic computer chair. This is, of course, just another symptom of the medical condition known as “being a pussy.”

Tomorrow is Good Friday, which seems to be a total misnomer. As I understand the history of it, it seemed to be a Pretty Shitty Friday.

The lady who runs the booth at my parking garage has only one hand. She has no problem doing her job, but I feel really guilty when I ask for change.

What did man do before the invention of those little rubber knobs that you put on your fingers to sort papers? Did he just lick his finger every time? That must have gotten brutal when flipping through the real heavy stacks. I’ve got a lot of paper to sort at my job, and thankfully I have one of those knob thingies. If I had to lick my finger each time I might accidentally poke my eye out. I’ve been wearing it for so long though, now I have phantom knob. Every time I touch something I imagine I’m feeling it through an eighth of an inch of rubber. Whenever I make sudden hand movements I instinctively clutch my fist to keep my knob from flying off. It’s starting to freak me out.

I’ve started my temp job and everything is great so far. One of the first things I couldn’t help noticing was the large number of young, professional women in the company. Let me tell you, never in my life have I wondered so often if there was a booger sticking out my nose.

It was easy to stay focused as the day wore on, but every once in a while my mind would wander to my past jobs. Looking back on my past employment, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve worked more jobs than the average person. Not that I’ve worked harder than anyone else, goodness no. But looking at all the places I’ve been employed in the last 8 years, the list seems kind of long:

Clinic, Engineering Company, Toy Store, Accounting Firm, Woodshop, Retail Warehouse, Leasing Office, Computer Lab, Registry of Motor Vehicles, Design Firm, Children’s Software Company, Mortgage Firm.

What’s that, like 12? Is that normal? It’s not like I can’t hold a job, all of those place listed above I’ve had to leave for things like college or relocation. I’ve never been fired. Although in my last job I was paranoid that they wanted me to leave; mainly because they occasionally forgot my paycheck and kept filling my work area with plants.

I suppose it doesn’t make any difference. More experience just makes me a better person. Because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough…

A lot of movies come full circle. The Deer Hunter came full circle, then continued around again. This might have been what made it so special, but it bugged the living hell out of me. Frankly, I didn’t like the film. It was overly drawn-out, I disliked the characters, and the vast majority of this three hour film seemed to go nowhere. What little bits of character development and actual plot that I did like could have been made into a half-hour movie.

I would have stopped watching at about the halfway point, but a) I didn’t know how long it really was, and b) I figured it must have some redeeming value; it won, like, five Oscars.

The characters were afflicted with either drunken stupidity or insane madness; and it’s very easy to confuse the two. Drunken stupidity was played out very thoroughly in the first third of the movie, which was thick with the kind of people that make you want to yell “SHUT THE HELL UP, IT’S THREE A.M. AND YOU JUST WOKE UP MY GODDAMNED BABY!” out your window. Madness was conveyed as a disease where the victim simply doesn’t answer any questions, even though they’re asked over and over and over.

Now, I think I “got” the movie. I don’t feel that any of the intricate points were lost on me. But it really is possible to convey plenty of the things that were conveyed in the movie without the agonizing pauses and slow editing (yes, let’s watch ten minutes of them driving away from the church).

Honestly, my DVD player froze in one scene, and I didn’t notice it for three whole minutes.

Add The Deer Hunter to the small pile of movies that I hated, but everyone else seemed to like. Right on top of Rushmore and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

Oh man, I dug up some winners in the want ads today:

Early Childhood Teacher
At that age you really don't know enough to teach. Unless, like, you want to impart your wisdom of crayons and edible objects.

Food Demonstrator
And this end goes in your mouth...

Front End Operator
Wouldn't that include anyone who knows how to go to the bathroom?

Tree Specialist
These are the people who know if it makes it sound when it falls.

Dump Driver
They must have seen my car.

I liked Dawn of the Dead. I liked the original, and I liked the remake; I thought they were both good. And I'm not one of those people who was bitching and moaning how a remake would sully the integrity of the original. It was a zombie movie, it didn't have any integrity.

The remake was less of a social commentary than the first. There was a lot less of the "people who shop in malls are zombies" in the new version. What they had in common were emotion and drama. Both movies succeed because it's not just about crazy zombie effects or buckets of blood; it's also about characters, characters like us, who aren't stupider than the zombies. That's a rarity; most zombie movies get it wrong because the characters are oversexed and too stupid to live. At the risk of sounding silly, these movies are good because they've got BRAINS!

And if you kept your eye on financial standings, Dawn of the Dead finally knocked The Passion of the Christ from the number one spot. This poses an interesting question. What's worse, a child sneaking in to see Dawn of the Dead, or The Passion of the Christ? It's pretty easy to explain to little Jimmy that the zombies need to feed on human flesh to survive, but what are you going to tell him when he asks why Christ died? Hmm?

It is my strong opinion that Spirited Away was a better Disney movie than most Disney movies. It was fun, wildly imaginative, and quirky; something that disney movies haven't been since roughly... Alladin (not counting Pixar films). I was putting off seeing it because I knew, through reviews and word of mouth, that it would be good; there was no excitement or "I wonder if I'll like it," thrill. If that's the worst thing I can say about a movie, than it certainly gets my seal of approval. One thing to note though, it's not for really young kids. They'd probably be frightened. Hell, I was frightened. But let's face it, I'm a huge wussy.

P.S. I need to write myself a reminder to buy more sticky notes. I have no idea where to write it.

OK, I'm feeling a little better now. Today kind of brightened my mood a bit, just because it was warm and sunshiny and all that crap. I'm still bummed though. Things could be better. It's all about the mood.

Hey, let's check the want ads today!

Boom Truck Operator
Alright you prehistoric screw-heads. See this? This is my boom truck!

Awake Overnight Staff
The second I find an overnight job that doesn't require me to be awake, I'm taking it.

Application Developer
This must be the guy who makes the forms you fill out when you apply for a job.

Auto Dismantler
Sounds like an easy job. Hell, my van practically does that by itself.

Job Developer
This one just blew my mind.

Anticipated Vacancies
Sure, you can send your resume, but how long until you become an "anticipated vacancy?"

Town Planner
OK, now I think the Wal-Mart should go here, right next to town hall.

Tonight it finally struck me how fucking depressed I am.

My sister, who always has the best of intentions, told me I should go out to a restaurant with her and her friends. Me, who always does the stupidest things, said yes.

So we all met at a loud, crowded, smoky, hot, and uncomfortable establishment; you know, the kind of place people go to be “Social,” even though they can’t hear each other above the crowd and the music. I don't see the appeal of places like that. It's hard to socialize when you're all choking and screaming.

I sat sideways in my uncomfortable metal chair because of the cyst on my back that the doctor had liberated the day before. I kept feeling under the back of my shirt, certain that it the blood had soaked through the bandage again.

Sister and friends reminisced about their grade school teachers, high school classes, in-jokes, and rumor mills; none of which I was ever a part of, nor could I even fake interest in.

I looked around the room. I was equally curious and horrified at the thought of seeing someone I knew. I didn’t want to have to explain that I’ve moved back in with my parents after a miserable year in my own apartment, and that I was now unemployed and basically staying in my room all day.

I nursed my soupy margarita and cringed every time I took a sip. Alcohol always aggravates my already prevalent stomach problems. Think of it as never being drunk, but always being hung over.

So there I sat, half in my chair, choking down a bitter drink that burned my throat and stomach, trying to hide my face from imaginary people that I didn’t want to see, and listening to everyone else talk and laugh while I dwelled on how much I hated my current living situation. Right about then was when I thought, “Wow, I’m fucking miserable.”

Oddly enough, this was an average Friday night for me.

Bad days are 90% attitude, which is why most bad days aren’t one long string of horrific accidents and tragedies, but erratic little annoying things that put you in a bad mood.

Today was a bad day. No one died. No limbs were broken. Aliens did not overtake the planet. But, on the “Suck-o-Meter,” today was really up there.

Like I said, sometimes it’s just a bunch of little things.

The day started bright and early when a team of construction workers, armed with latest in high tech noise-making equipment, decided that the street in front of my house needed to be fucked with. I tried my best to cover my head with a pillow, more to suffocate myself than block the noise, but it was no use. They were apparently scraping away the asphalt layer by layer; kind of strip mining for a gas line. It was a real chorus.

I got an e-mail from a certain company whom I was very excited to have an “interview” at last week. Now, when I say “interview” I mean they called me in, and when I got there they said they were too busy to conduct a formal interview, so they quickly scanned through my portfolio, asked no questions and answered no questions, and told me I would have to talk to the creative director, who was also busy and couldn’t see me today. I tried to contact the creative director via the e-mail address they gave me. That was last Tuesday. No one bothered to reply until Thursday night. “Second interviews won’t be for at least a few weeks,” they said. “And going forward, we’re only going to pursue people with 5-10 years of experience. Thanks for coming in.”

“But… I never had a first interview…” I replied.

Today I got a final letter saying, in so many words, “Tough shit.”

So, with that victory under my belt, I began my daily (for the last three months anyway) job hunt. I was running out of design companies to force-feed my resume to, so today I broke down and started applying for administrative assistant jobs. Talk about depressing.

“Anonymous company seeks brainless drone to do menial tasks and try and act pleasant to irate customers and other stupid people.”

And let me just say that they first person who tells me I'm "overqualified" is going to get a boot to the ass.

Next thing I know it’s lunch; so I pile up a baloney sandwich with all the fixings, which included dairy products such as cheese and mayo. “No problem,” I thought. “Just another occasion for these wonderful Lactaid pills!” Of course, after I had eaten the sandwich, I realized I had forgotten the lactose pills. “No problem,” I though. “I’ve had dairy plenty of times without Lactaid pills. Of course, that was quite a while ago. But I don’t think… uh oh… (cue running to bathroom followed by unholy noises).

A few more resumes and trips to the bathroom later it was already dinner time. My, how time flies when you’re fucking miserable. I was feeling much better at this point, and it was suggested that we order pizza. I was OK with this, because I KNEW I’d remember my Lactaid this time. It always works for me as long as I remember it.

As was our usual arrangement, my parents paid for the pizza and I drove pickup. When I got to the pizza place no one was at the counter. I waited. I wandered around the side, into the kitchen, looking for another human being, wondering if there had been a bomb scare or something.

It’s hard to point out the obvious without sounding like a jerk. That’s, do doubt, why the girl I found cleaning the oven gave me a dirty look when I interrupted her task and said, “Shouldn’t someone be at the counter?”

On the ride home I had a pleasant surprise when I came to a screeching halt to avoid hitting an animal sitting in the middle of the road. I had thought it was a dog, but it turned out to be a possum. It had already been hit too. There was blood everywhere. It was still stunned, that’s why it was wobbling around in the middle of the road.

I backed up and went around it, hoping that it would be out of it’s misery soon without being run over again. I had lost my appetite; which was fine because my pan pizza had toppled off the seat onto the floor of the van when I stopped.

It's just the little things. Arg.

I think it’s funny that the fact that I don’t like wrestling has not kept me from watching five Wrestlemanias. (Wrestlemanii?). In one way or another I have managed to watch 25% of all Wrestlemanias ever filmed. I have seen The Undertaker go from zombie, to biker, and back to zombie. I have seen three generations of fat Asian men find their calling in a profession other than sumo wrestling. I have seen Stone Cold Steve Austin go from brash young upstart to battered old man with a serious drinking problem. I have seen all of these things, yet you cannot fathom the immensity of the fuck I do not give.

The simple answer is that I have friends, or friends who have friends, who are into wrestling. I don’t think any less of them for it, but wrestling is, by and large, pretty stupid. If you’ve never watched it, imagine a cheesy daytime soap opera where everyone is jacked, half naked, and stupid as a cinder block. Now imagine that all the drama and all the conflicts can only be solved by pretending to beat each other senseless. Sprinkle in some redneck announcers, overly dramatic entrances, and some finely toned women (some of whom are hot, most of whom are… well… men), and you’ve got wrestling.

But I’m not above it all. As much as it doesn’t appeal to me, I can’t help but occasionally shout at the TV, “OH! THAT HAD TO HURT!” when a wrestler gets piledriven into the concrete. (piledrived?) Sometimes, and just for a little while, my baser instincts come out and I start to enjoy it, and that makes me very, very afraid.

If it's been just another manic Monday, why would you wish it was Sunday? Then you'd have to get ready for a Manic Monday again! Why not wish it was Friday?

In the want ads last week I found an ad for "Customer Repair Technician." I thought, 'That's just the problem, the customers are always broken.'

I also saw, "Call-In Security Officer"

::RING RING::

::Click:: "Um... hello?"

"Hi, this is Jon. GET AWAY FROM THERE!"

There are certain films you should not watch with your parents. Now that I’m living at home again, I’m usually finding that out after the fact. Tonight’s example? Once Upon a Time in Mexico.

Having first made the bitter mistake of watching Desperado with my folks a few years back, I certainly should have learned my lesson. I mean, they enjoy the occasional bloody action flick more than the average set of parents, but Desperado really pushed their limits. Seeing Antonio Banderas straddling a naked Selma Hayek mid-movie certainly didn’t help the situation.

I rented Once Upon a Time in Mexico knowing that a) my dad and I would be the only ones watching it, and b) it was boob free.

We sat down and began chuckling at Johnny Depp’s excellent performance, cringing at some unbelievable action sequences, and otherwise enjoying the film. What soon struck me was how incredibly violent the movie was. Not just the explosive gun battles but things like the flesh-free post surgery victim, no less than three empty eye sockets, and more than excessive detail to… squishy… sound effects.

My dad is a tough guy though. He’s seen the best of the best and is a particularly avid fan of the Alien films. He wasn’t even offended the other day when I ran into the room and shouted, “Holy living fuck! I got an interview at Atari!” (I was excited). But I could tell that this movie pushed his limits… repeatedly. When it was over, there was an uncomfortable silence, followed by his trademark “Well, that was different.” (Which is how he says he hated a movie). My face was red. Short of a zombie movie or a porno, I couldn’t have picked a more graphic film.

Don’t get me wrong, I rather liked the movie. It just REALLY should have been something to watch on my own.

As a personal rule I would never cause harm to a dog. That said, if the Windows XP "Search" dog were a real dog, I would have kicked him by now. It would be fine if he just fetched my slippers or did tricks, but he's telling me he can find files on my computer, and he can't find shit. In real life he'd be the kind of dog that keeps smacking into glass doors.

I keep renting Asian action films hoping that one of these days one of them won’t make me want smack myself in the head with a hammer.

Tonight’s feature fud was The Returner. What we have in The Returner, aside from none good English, was ten minutes of stylish, relatively cool action sequences spliced into 110 minutes of heartbreakingly boring movie. This larger chunk of the film consisted of overacting, half-assed science fiction, and smaller derivative actions sequences ripped from other movies... better movies..

What seems to be common in the contemporary Asian action film is the mishmash of languages. There were at least three. There may have been more, but only two were actually mentioned, and I speak the third. What really hurts me though is that the people who spoke English were blatantly not English speakers. Ask any Japanese person, who does not know a single word in English, to say, “Space-Time Continuum,” and you’ll know what I mean.

“Hello, we’re your main characters. You may remember us from such films as The Professional and The Matrix.”

Just imagine how bad the movie would be to make me say, "You know, I really miss the deep plots and witty dialogue of John Woo."

Arg. Now I’m just pissed off.

So from now on should I refer to my Martha Stewart towels as my "Prison Towels?"

It’s light again and I may have another chance to run. The sheriff’s going to have to act fast if he wants to catch me. The fact that I’m not swinging from the gallows right now says volumes about how poorly organized the town posse is. If my luck holds I can steal a horse at the edge of town and be across the Mexican border before they even realize I’m not home. If I can just get across the border I’ll be home free.

I have to wait, the enlisted men will go home in about half an hour, leaving only the deputy in charge until the sheriff comes into the office ten minutes later. I know this because I’ve always studied their schedule, afraid that I might someday need to know when to run. Today is that day.

I have only enough time to reflect on what got me here; where I made that bad decision that sent my whole world tumbling. Let me tell you about how I became a criminal.

I was at the mall. I always knew that if I was going to start a criminal career, no matter what kind, it was going to be at the mall. My mother was with me, she was offering to buy me some clothes for my birthday, so I could pick them out and she’d pay for them. Pretty sweet deal. Unfortunately, I trusted my fashion sense even less than hers, so I decided I would wait on new clothes until I could get the fashion advice of my sister.

On our way out of JCPenny (she always wanted to park near JCPenny), we saw a stack of catalogs near the door. We scanned the pile. No price tags, no signs. She had a coupon for a free catalog, but apparently they were all free. She took one. I grabbed one and thumbed through it. It had the men’s clothing selection, I could take it home and do some research on what was fashionable. I grabbed one and stuck it in my bag of books.

We left the store and got in our car. Something was tugging at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t say what the feeling was. I had started the engine and, on impulse, took a look at my new JCPenny catalog. Then I saw it, in the upper right corner of the cover. $5.

Holy shit! We just boosted a couple of JCPenny catalogs!

My mother, reminding me of the coupon she had, knew it wasn’t worth the trouble to return hers. I, however, had no coupon and no excuse.

It all came down to that moment. Would I go back and return the catalog, or would I just forget about it and take it home? This was the fulcrum of my life. I could be a good boy scout and return this crappy catalog of overpriced items or I could become a criminal, and speed away with my stolen goods.

In the end, I became a criminal. Not because of violence in the media or a careless society or a dysfunctional upbringing. I became a criminal because my feet were tired and it was cold out.