Tired Yet

[Saturday]

I go out job hunting, returning 7 applications all around Dallas, and then park my truck out in the parking lot behind the dorms. Half an hour later I go back out to my truck for a grand mall shopping adventure. Sense something is wrong with The Truck of Malfunction (shorthand TOM), as driver’s side is noticeably lower than usual. Upon careful inspection, find I have a flat left front tire.

Damnation.

I have no spare tire (for long and complicated reasons that involve heredity, large weather systems, and crime patterns in Orange, Texas that we won’t get into here) so this will be an extra special feat of Jason.

Decide, in a very Gone With the Wind moment, that tomorrow is another day. More specifically, it is another day in which I’ll be much better equipped emotionally to deal with this whole thing. Throw my hands in the air, say “Bah, pointy, monkey,” and go find alternate driving plans for that night.

[Sunday]

Enlist the beautiful and always resourceful Devon to aid me in my Tire Misadventure (by this point it already has Capital Letter significance in my mind). Plan A is to go to the tire store and see if they have a spare tire for sale. Once we have acquired said spare, Devon will drop me off back at the TOM and hit the road, so’s I don’t inconvenience her too much.

Plan A dies quickly; they don’t sell spares that will fit on my TOM.

No problem - am brilliant, resourceful near-college-graduate, have many other plans.

Plan B: remove tire from TOM, leave it on the jack, run over to tire store, quick repair job and back to replace the tire, no fuss, no muss.

Well crap. I also don’t have spinny metal cross thing that you use to take the nuts off (no clue what it’s called. Take to calling it ‘spinny thing.’).

Arg. Obviously never was a boy scout. Good case could be made for being the anti-boy scout (My motto: “Never be prepared. Or helpful. Lie often.”).

Plan C: Go to Wal-Mart. Find spinny thing, purchase it. Bring it back to TOM, reinstate Plan B. Rock on.

Well crap. After arduous drive to Wal-Mart, are informed that they are all out of Lug Wrenches. (Devon: “Huzzah! We’re making progress. We know what the spinny thing is called now!”)

After careful consideration of the plans, Devon and I find a possible misstep: Devon has a lug wrench in her trunk. Perhaps that might work.

Plan D: Return to TOM, use the lug wrench from Devon’s trunk, once again reinstate Plan B.

Damnation.

Devon’s lug wrench is incompatible.

Quick huddle determines that we have spent far too long on this project. Are both very disheartened by failure of plans A through D. Will try again later on in the week.

Sigh. This is not my beautiful life.

[Thursday]

Noon. Have 2 hours to rectify tire situation, get a program done, and get to work by 2:00. No problem - am cool, confident, resourceful 22 year-old adult. Am so screwed.

Devon rejoins the Misadventure. Love Devon.

Plan E: Exactly like Plan C, but screw Wal-Mart, will rely on AutoZone as more likely to stock auto related paraphernalia.

Drive deep into the ghetto. Do not find AutoZone, but O’Reilly’s Auto Parts looks promising. Sweet! Lug wrenches! [Pause] Three kinds of lug wrenches. Damnation! Ask dude at counter to provide his expert opinion as to which will work best. Guy not only figures out which one it is, but goes back in the back to find a nut from a ’96 Ford Ranger just to be sure. Love him.

Plan E has not failed yet. Ever so promising and within schedule.

Return to TOM. Must loosen lug nuts. Then raise truck on jack. No problem – am strapping young man, have been working out, will have no trouble. 10 minutes into first-lug-nut loosening process with no visible progress and nothing to show for it but a small blister on my hand and sharp pains in my back. Follow advice of Devon and hop on one side of lug wrench. No results, but no injury so I count it as a success. Am afraid Plan E is dead.

Wait. Two Hispanic worker guys (HWG) come to our aid.

HWG: “Need help?”

Jason: “Thank Jesus!!!”

Devon: “I think that means ‘Yes, please.’”

[HWG grabs the lug wrench]

Jason [breathing heavily, covered in sweat]: “I don’t know, they seem pretty stuck…”

[within 5 seconds HWG has all 5 nuts off]

Jason: “Well then, yes, obviously.”

HWGs then proceed to save my life by finding a way to jack the truck up (despite its way too low to the ground status) that involves a jack, a gigantic 2X4, and a floor mat. Love HWGs.

They ask for the spare. I explain the absence of the spare and Plan E. HWG says that the jack is very precarious and will likely fall over if “someone leans on the truck or just breathes heavily.” I stop breathing in the direction of the truck, while I feel an ulcer developing. Thank HWGs 14 million times and tell them we will be quick like rabbits at the tire store and back before disaster can befall. They laugh and walk off into the sunset.

On to 'quick like rabbits' tire repair portion of Plan E. Head off to NTB tire shop, otherwise known as The Slowest Tire Repair Shop In The Recorded History of Humankind (TSTRSINRHOH). Wait at TSTRSINRHOH for 2 hours and 34 minutes (no exaggeration whatsoever). Midway through we are informed that the workers have thrown my tire out into the trash and have gone to retrieve it.

Run into one of our seniors from the Mustang Band whilst in The Waiting Room At The Slowest Tire Repair Shop In The Recorded History of Humankind (TWRATSTRSINRHOH). Have nice conversation, while slowly going insane as I imagine a squirrel throwing a nut at my TOM and it falling over and exploding, while the squirrel looks on, cackling madly.

Devon goes off to acquire us some lunch (have I mentioned? : Love Devon) while I stay and watch C-SPAN, the only channel you get in TWRATSTRSINRHOH. Crazy lady in wild flower patterned dress comes in. Begins talking C-SPAN (specifically to Momar Kadaffi who is talking about Iraq). When C-SPAN does not respond, she turns to me and repeats her line of questions. Have I mentioned that this is not my beautiful life?

Finally the tire is repaired. Is free! However, I have officially missed all of work, so net loss is $34.25. Return to TOM. Has not fallen over, exploded, or been attacked by maniacal squirrels. Breathe deep sigh of relief. Somehow manage to reattach tire to truck after only 30 minutes by ourselves, employing only 2 jacks, one floor mat, and one box of Scooby-Doo Band-Aids.

Final tally: One tire replaced in only 4 hours, 37 minutes.
And there was much rejoicing.

Pure Sap

I really had no idea what I was getting into. When I picked SMU, one of the things they sent me in the mail was a brochure for their marching band (“Join The Mustang Band. We have lots of uniforms!”). I was (am) a nerd, so I called the director up, found out I needed to learn the alto sax and said I’d see him in 3 months.

That first week of orientation was the most difficult week of my life, as far as my limited memory can recall. I didn’t know about the high-step marching, wasn’t good at the high-step marching, could barely get up at 6:30AM, definitely couldn’t play the sax, didn’t understand how long the hours were, and was shy as hell. I was constantly exhausted, insanely sore, ready to die, and generally freaked out.

By the fourth day, I was hooked forever.

It’s an impossible thing to explain (as all these types of organizations are), but by the end of that week I had added 29 brothers and sisters to my life and was ready for anything. Some of it is explainable: starting college in a new town is much easier already knowing 68 people before classes start and having something else going on besides classes is a big help to get you going.

But more than that, I picked up this big dose of school-spirit/camaraderie/history from the band that was almost overwhelming. No matter your differences, every person in the band was right there with you to give everything for a good performance and to cheer your team on right to the bitter-bitter-oh-so-bitter end.

Along with this came some of the most truly, insanely weird, off-the-wall traditions you could possibly imagine. I went an entire fall semester going hoarse every Saturday, staying that way until Monday, and trying to yell even louder the next week. There were occasions when I seriously doubted if my hearing would ever come back (Similarly, there were occasions when some of my hearing never did come back.)

And yet when someone asked me at the end of the year if I was coming back for next year, the thought of leaving had never crossed my mind.

Over four years things some things changed, but the core stayed the same. On occasions I declared I wanted the hell out and was sick of everything. There were times I was so angry at people that fire may have actually shot from my eye sockets. But in the end, every time, I knew that it was where I belonged and I’d see it through.

In the Mustang Band:

I made some of the best friends of my life,

I learned to play loudly, unselfconsciously, and with every fiber of my being,

I understood the concept of real loyalty, to both a group and an institution,

I developed a love and appreciation of jazz music,

I became able to sing the alma mater at the top of my lungs, with my pony-ears up, anywhere at anytime, without caring what other people think,

And I got much more mature while at the same time being very, very immature.

Now my four years are up, so I’m leaving the band. It feels good, in a lot of ways. I’m ready to move on and I don’t regret a single moment of my time spent. But sure, I am sad. It was a huge part of my life that’s over now, you can’t help but miss it.

It ended on a high note for me, though. I was awarded the award (geez does that sound awkward) for best behind-the-scenes-guy in the band. Which was a big deal to me. I’ve never been an in-the-foreground sort of person, I leave that to people with the ability to speak normally and do not fall down at every opportunity. So having whatever small contribution I made recognized is…um…cool. See, this is why I stay in the background.

So, summary. Mustang Band is awesome and I can’t think of a better group of people to join (in a retrospective aw-its-my-last-day sort of way). It was a great time and expect equally great things in the future.

Oh, and I’m totally coming back for alumni band.

High Times in the Law Library

When I first started in working in the library, I was a temp worker shifting every book on the fourth floor to other places on the same floor. It was not the best job in the world, but it paid well, so there were no complaints by me. At least to my boss. After a year, I got hired on as part time shelver guy and left the glamorous world of manual labor behind.

You’d think this would be a step up, but I had my doubts as the semester started. At first, it was just little things. Law students would stare at me weirdly as I walked by pushing one of the little book carts. But I was cool with that, as people stare at me weirdly all the time. The little whispering sounds that seemed to follow my passing I attributed to the novelty of an undergrad wandering around over in the law school.

Eventually these rationalizations failed me, as law students (especially 1L’s) started coming over to me and would painfully try to engage me in conversation. All of the damn time. A sample:

[Jason is up on a stepstool, holding four books, trying desperately to reach the top shelf despite is small stature. A 1L comes up behind him, taps him on the back.]

1L: “Hey.”

Jason (spins around, almost falls, rights himself): “Uh…hi.”

1L: “So, you’re the book shelver, right?”

[Jason looks at the books in his hands, the cart beside him full of books, and then back at the 1L.]

Jason: “Yeah…”

1L: “Ah. Cool…”

[At this point, the 1L almost says something, then stops and looks down at his feet. He starts pointing his toe and twisting his foot around like a 5 year-old in trouble.]

Jason: “Can I help you?”

1L(almost says something, reconsiders): “Uh, no. See ya…”

[He wanders off. Jason shrugs and turns around, misses the shelf and drops the books everywhere, especially on his toes.]

This would seriously happen at least once every single time I went to work. And it went on for a good 2 weeks. It starts to creep me out and how, because I mean, WTF?

(Which was quite the strong feeling for me, seeing as I hate the phrase WTF more than most anything else, besides LOL or the word impetus.)

Finally, it’s all explained in the third week. This time 2 1L’s join forces to come talk to me. Again, they pick the moment when I’m up on a stepstool, arms full of books. Because that’s how my life works. The normal non-banter (see above) occurs and I’m really hoping this will get over quickly, ‘cause my arms are getting tired. As we reach the end, 1L #2 sort of kicks 1L #1 in the leg. #1 takes a deep breath and is all “So, do you do anything else besides shelve books?”

My mind sort of runs through the possibilities of what this crazy law student could possibly be getting at, but I draw a blank. “Um, I’m in the band?” I end up responding.

#1: “No, no. Like, do you sell anything? To, like, law students?”

Again, I wonder what the hell he could possibly getting at. Does he expect me to flip open a trench coat full of knock-off watches and cheesy jewelry? That I have some excellent Clown on Velvet paintings on sale back in the reserve section? WTF?

Jason: “Umm, no. What were you looking for?”

#1: “Oh! Nothing…”

Jason: “No, seriously, what?”

[#2 kicks him again. I’m starting to like #2]

#1: “Well, like, there’s this rumor that the shelving guy in the library sells some really good pot. So we were just, you know, asking…”

[#1 turns really red. Jason resists the urge to scream in frustration.]

Jason: “Ahhh. Yeah, no. Don’t know anything about that. Sorry.”

#1(turns to leave, muttering): “This is the last time I ever listen to a 3L…”

[Jason gives up, turns around and promptly drops all the books, as per usual.]

And that’s how for a month in my sophomore year I was considered the primary drug dealer in the law school. Eventually people stopped asking me, but it took a long time. And when my co-workers found out about the whole thing, they proceeded to mock me about it for the entire year. So, yeah, good times.

My Lack of Learning Systems

So I’ve worked in a law library for the last four years, with varying degrees of success. It’s a pretty sweet deal most of the time. Good pay, fun coworkers, flexible hours. On the whole it rocks, but sometimes my unique luck and disposition have made for some rather ridiculous situations.

Take last week. I work nights these days, so basically I shelve a couple of books and then work at the front desk the rest of the time. Occasionally we have a special project for the night. Last week, the special project was moving around several honkin’ piles of boxes from one basement room to another. Since there were way too many for me to transport by myself, one of my coworkers made me a nice deal: if I would clear the space in basement during his dinner break, we would go down there together when he got back to do all the heavy lifting.

A little back-story on the basement: It freaks the bejesus out of me. It’s dark and creepy, with loud florescent lights and ancient library related paraphernalia littering the corners. So sometimes I need a little distraction to take my mind off the horror that is the basement, whilst I’m down there. On this particular night, my distraction of choice was Britney Spears’ latest adventure in recorded music, In the Zone.

And while I’m listening to said CD, sometimes I tend to sing along. I mean, who could it hurt, right? The basement is locked to everyone except staff and the only staff around nights is me, Desk Guy (who can’t leave it unmanned) and Guy Who’s Out at Dinner. Thus, thinking I’d be all alone in my very own basement of good acoustics, I began rocking out proper to the inherently catchy beats of a blonde pop star. Now, I might not have the best singing voice in the world, but I can surely get into a song well enough. And when you add in the dance moves, it’s truly a sight to behold. Not that anyone should.

And yet.

So I move a particularly large stack of books over to their proper place deep in the back west stacks. Continuing to sing along, as I have been doing for the last, I don’t know, 7 minutes or so. I sort of do this half spin/hop/fist pump move out of the stacks to head back out of the basement - - - And run into Guy-Who-Most-Definitely-Should-be-at-Dinner-Right-Now. He’s sort of collapsed against the wall, laughing very, very hard.

Sometimes you just have these moments in life where it would be very helpful to have some sort of invisibility device, or perhaps a nice hole in the Earth to fall into and never return. This was such a moment. Alas, no hole appeared. In the end, he was very complimentary about the whole performance. Once he caught his breath again, that is.

What makes this story all the more horrible is that it wasn’t the first time that this sort of thing had happened. Only back then it involved with a reference librarian, two students, and the Chicago soundtrack. Back then, I made a solemn promise to myself never again would I do something so embarrassing. It’s good to see how well these sort of things work out. Cripes.

But anyway, stay tuned for an entire week of The Continuing Misadventures of Jason in the Law Library. I’ll post as many as I can. Because there are tons. Sadly enough. Sigh.

Lament for a Pipe Cleaner

I love my truck. He is tiny and red. I got him my junior year in high school. My dad bought him from the parents of some crazy felon who had done horrible things to the truck. It was missing all its shocks, the windows were tinted so much you couldn’t see out, the gas gauge did nothing but serve as decoration, and the stereo system was entirely gutted.

But I loved him anyway and tried to fix him up. I added some partially effective shocks and got rid of the horrible tint job. The stereo problem remained for a long time and the gas gauge still doesn’t work to this day, but he was like my best friend.

When I moved to college, I had to abandon him for an entire semester and it was very painful. By December I couldn’t take the separation anymore and drove him up to Dallas. In honor of our reunited state, I introduced my beautiful truck to two new friends that would change his life forever: Edgar and Perren.

Edgar was a tiny stuffed beaver. He was very intelligent looking and very menacing at the same time. I dubbed him responsible for all things law related. It would be Edgar’s job to keep the police away, even when I was doing things not necessarily lawful in the eyes of traffic court. He would sit in the middle of the dashboard, pressed up against the glass, always vigilant for signs of The Man.

Perren was different. He was a tiny balled-up orange pipe cleaner with little googly eyes who hung from a piece of wire. He was unique looking, and as such he developed a skill for being very good at not judging others. Perren received the job of hanging from the rear-view mirror and observing traffic. Unlike Edgar, Perren was not active in affecting the traffic; he was simply responsible for it. If you ended up in a traffic jam and were frustrated, you could smack Perren and he would spin around the cab. It was stress relieving for both of you, because Perren loved spinning and never judged your anger.

Together as a unit, the three worked in perfect harmony for many years. It was very sweet. But as time went on, things grew older and started to fall apart. And not just me. By the end of 2003, my beautiful truck had to be rechristened The Truck of Malfunction, because nothing really worked anymore (lights, windshield wipers, gas gauge, speakers, seats, air conditioning), besides the primary function of generally being able to travel from point A to point B on a consistent basis. Which was mostly enough.

But December 2003 also brought another depressing milestone: the retirement of Perren. Alas, while the three had worked together so well for lo these many years, a poor pipe cleaner can only be bashed around a truck so many times before he loses both his googly eyes and becomes unable to fulfill his duties. So now he lives in my desk drawer, relaxing with the other wire-based products, like the staples and paperclips. Edgar still lives in the truck, a little faded, but with the excellent record of only 2 run-ins with John Law in almost 4 years.

For now Edgar is a little lonely, but understands about such things. Thus, for now there is the Lament for Perren, truly the bravest pipe cleaner ever to be held responsible for Dallas traffic. At least until that beautiful day that I find some more crazy eyes and a hot glue gun and return him to service.

Yeah, it’s a strange, magical, and vaguely creepy world whenever you’re in Jason Land.

Job Hunting and the Common Man

“Always get the laziest man to do the job. For he will get it done the quickest so he can continue to be lazy.” - Ryan P.Quirk

I do not make very good first impressions. Never have, more than likely never will. Generally, I come off as surly and angry, or weird and shifty, or fidgety and spastic. It’s all dependent on the time of day you first meet me and the amount of sugar I’ve consumed lately. In most areas of life, this isn’t the worst problem in the world. I get second chances with pretty much anyone who matters, and over time people come to understand or at least tolerate me in normal life. No harm, no foul, even if people think that I (hate them / will mug them / am insane) the first time we meet.

In the world of job hunting and the application process, however, this ain’t the case. First impressions are everything. Which would normally mean I’m completely screwed over and will never find a job and will end up homeless and living under an overpass somewhere, selling week old oranges to the passersby.

Okay, so that may indeed happen, but in the meantime I’ve taken some steps to combat these issues which have plagued me, lo these many years. I share them with you in the hopes that we can grow together and learn from my many, many, oh-so-many mistakes. Here are Jason’s First Four Rules for the Interview Process :

1) Always act very friendly, and lean towards the fidgety/spastic mood during first impressions. This is the least harmful first impression I can make. People won’t hire you if they think you are angry all time or are more than likely a criminal. People will give you a chance if they think you’re insane, though. Never have figured out why. Maybe there’s a fine line between quirky and insane that one can carefully walk on occasion. Playing with something in your hands is good. Bodily ticks and nervous twitches are frowned on.

2) Never make a joke during a job interview. NEVER. I don’t care if they set you up perfectly and seem like a fun person, all buddy-buddy, and even make jokes of their own. Making anything resembling a funny remark is shorthand for “Please stare blankly at me, shuffle your papers around, take a deep breath, sigh heavily, and move on with two quick questions before ending the interview as fast as humanly possible.”

3) Try, as hard as possible, not to fall down during the interview. Additionally, do not knock anything over, run into anything, or fall out of your chair. It looks pretty unprofessional and it’s really hard to maintain a dignified façade when you trip over the doorframe, flailing your arms, and knock over the 4 foot tall plant on your way to shake a guy’s hand. Trust me on this one.

4) Actually answer questions when posed to you. Don’t mull it over in your mind, pinch up your face, go “oh, umm, err, uhhhh,” over and over again, trying to come up with an answer that sounds remotely sane, whilst engaging in an internal dialogue of “say something, what does he want, SAY SOMETHING, he’s staring, you’ve moved into the extremely awkward and overdrawn pause phase and you keep thinking and the pause is getting longer and just say something dammit hurry, he’s getting that ‘oh what have I gotten myself into’ look and I’m so screwed and wait crap say something hurry it up AHHH…” This tends to be viewed as very unprofessional.

So yeah.

In related news, I’m totally in job hunting mode right now. The search has thus far proved fruitless, but I now have an interview lined up for work in the dynamic world that is Target, the bull’s-eye retail megamart. I mean, that’s totally what you look for after spending 4 years getting a BS in computer science from a respectable university, no?

And people call me cynical. Ha!