Old School

[Hey. I’ve been working like crazy the past week and it’s only getting worse. But to show that I’m not abandoning y’all forever, I present a very old piece that I wrote back when I was a sophomore in college. It pains me to even read it (God, I didn’t think it was possible but I was even more of a dork back then), but out it goes anyway. It was originally part of a series, but it stands on its own here.]

Subject: Wherein I Discuss Philosophy With a Dinosaur

Date: Thursday, March 22, 2001 11:57 PM

Ok, so we're back. This week we discuss the importance of not trusting doctors.

So I attempt to drive back to school on Sunday. This is not the easiest task since:

1) We were up far too late into the night Saturday.

2) I seemed to have developed a horribly persistent strain of a stomach virus.

3) The gas gauge on my truck no longer is in service, thus I must guess when I think it will soon stop running due to lack of fuel.

4) My radio refused to pick up anything other than the Southern Baptist Sermon station.

Despite these difficulties I still managed to get all the way back here. It was interesting to say the least. However, upon my return, the stomach virus decided that I wasn't paying enough attention to it, so it proceeded to mount a full scale invasion of every single organ in my body, not content only with my stomach. Thus, I found myself in the throes of pure horror as classes were once again starting and I was confined mostly to the bathroom and the bed. (I did manage to write two small letters and go to two classes anyway, though. Aren't I the trooper?) Unfortunately I am a bit behind in classes (some bitter trip involving basketball and several depressing losses may have contributed to this) so missing more class wasn't really a good idea. But no, the sick mind of fate decided that I should enjoin the toilet rather than the textbook. This unfortunate turn of events reached its most unfortunate peak around Tuesday when I could no longer stand on my own power. So I turned to our wonderful Health Care Center to treat my illness with efficiency and knowledgeableness. HAHAHAHAHA! Lets all just take a collective moment to laugh at my complete and total naivety and ignorance.

Caught your breath yet? Ok, I'll continue.

So I walk (well 'walk' isn't the right word, it was more like a staggering drunken stumbling dance in which I almost collapsed several times, drawing all sorts of odd looks) over to the Health Care Center, which for efficiency's sake shall hereunto be referred to as The Building Which Provides Neither Health nor Care and Resembles One of Torquemada's Interrogation Rooms (or TBWPNHCROTIR). I arrive, approach the front desk and am immediately told to 'just hold [my] pretty little horses there' because the receptionists are all very busy trying to get all their orders for Shlotsky's straight over the phone to a guy who doesn't quite 'speak the English'. Thus, I am bodily relegated to a nearby wall as if I am some type of inanimate object. After continents drift and reform, the north star once again changes from Polaris to Vega, and I develop the ability to move things with my mind, I'm finally approached and questioned as to why I am there. It was exactly like one of those old prison movies with the bright lights and the threat of violence, only there was no good cop to speak of. When they determined that I indeed posed no threat to their little centre of power, they point me in the general direction of a doctor's office, with the admonition that he isn't there yet, and they're not quite sure when they might expect him back. I'm able to find the waiting room but immediately must again get up and perform my little dance of the infirmed so that I may find a bathroom for the simple reason that my virus hates me. All this is despite the fact that I haven't eaten a thing since five Oreos on Saturday night. Well, I get back to the waiting room inside TBWPNHCROTIR and take deep breaths, looking for a doctor. Mountains erode. Ice caps melt. I comprehend physics problems. Finally a doctor approaches. He directs me into his observation room, which resembles a medieval blacksmith's shoppe. After several murmurings of 'oh yeah, that's not good' and 'does that hurt? How about now?' he decides that, yes I am sick, as is indicated by the no standing up straight and the constant throwing up. So to remedy this he prescribes some medicine called Promethazine.

---SIDEBAR---

Never take a medicine that is named after the guy who stole fire from the gods and was severely punished. Its just asking for trouble.

---END SIDEBAR---

Thus I am directed now to the pharmaceutical section of TBWPNHCROTIR. I sit in line. Rainforests whither and regrow. My third great-grandchild is born. I develop a unified field theory. Finally, someone approaches. I am subjected to several insane IQ tests to determine if I can actually understand the directions 'Take one every six hours'. Then came the admonitions.

This drug will cause:

1) Incredible sleepiness. Do not operate heavy machinery and that means cars too.

2) Dehydration. Drink the equivalent of four Great Lakes of water every two hours. Or you'll die. Badly.

3) Vision changes. If everything gets really blurry, that's ok.

4) Extreme sensitivity to light. You might want to huddle in the darkness for a few days. Or buy some SPF 4000 sunblock and wear a blindfold.

This drug may (in rare cases) cause:

Muscle stiffness, weakness, restlessness, difficulty speaking, mild hallucinations, trembling, shaking, dizziness, lip smacking, uncontrollable movements, skin discoloration, and/or nausea. Still want to take it?

Somehow (I'm really not sure how) I vacated TBWPNHCROTIR and returned to my dorm around 4:00, four days after my entry into that horrible place. I guess I was without my normal limited rational thought, so I went ahead and took the medicine and crawled to my bed, against my usually better judgment. Indeed the medicine makes you sleepy. Comatose is more like it. I wake up at 7:45 without the concept of time passing. I attempt to stand up and literally crumple to the floor like an aluminum can in the path of a charging rhinoceros.(Dizziness? Check.) My roommate comes in and asks if I'm ok. My response: "Mlepk, nosh toombs eckerd." (Difficulty speaking? Check.) Roommate: What's with you smacking your lips? You thirsty? (Check.) I return to the bed, although it takes a long time, since I have no arm strength and my left leg really isn't responding to mental commands. (Muscle stiffness and weakness? Double Check.) Then things get interesting. Actually I can't vouch for this but my friend from band keeps bringing it up, so I guess it really happened. Matt came over to inquire as to my spring break and found me in bed holding a conversation by myself, although at the time I insisted that Barney the purple dinosaur was in the room. He tried to explain that he was only on the TV, but I could not be assuaged. (Mild hallucinations? Oh yeah, CHECK.) After determining that I was indeed sick and under a doctor's supposedly informed care, he left with the admonition to get better and to stop arguing a Cartesian philosophy to a dinosaur, they just don't get the concept of 'I think therefore I am'. Eventually in the middle of the night this must have passed and I awoke semi-lucid but still really dizzy and without motor skills. Since TBWPNHCROTIR is only open until 7:30, I persuade my roommate (a really really great guy, especially since he's probably caught whatever it is that has destroyed me by now) to get me some water and I attempt to get some sleep. Alas, finally the restlessness has kicked in (CHECK) and my mind, surprisingly clear, refuses to shut off and I'm subjected to deep thoughts I'd rather not think about while viciously nauseous (The bill? Oh, no you mean, the CHECK!). Morning comes. When called, TBWPNHCROTIR responds thusly: 'Well then, you shouldn't take that anymore.' After a scream you probably heard where you live, I calm down enough to ask when I can expect these symptoms to pass. Theoretically, everything but the restlessness should quickly end (which, to their credit, I guess they did, after NINETEEN HOURS!) but given my first reaction, it would be best if I didn't try anything new, just lots of liquids and rest. Which I did, and wouldn't you know it, its Thursday night and I'm practically 84% fine. As opposed to the .017% I was before, this is just great, although I still failed my physics quiz (yeah you try studying when a dinosaur keeps spouting Hobbes at you). But things can only get better this semester, right? Right? Sure.

Keeping the World Safe

One fashion show at a time

I always knew it would come to this someday. It was only a matter of time until the day came that I would don the blue blazer and tie, taking my rightful place in the warren of history as a security guard for the largest fashion show in Texas.

Okay, so it would be a bit more accurate to say that never in my wildest nightmares did the thought of such a thing ever cross my mind. But still, the fact remains that for a week, I was indeed the first and last line of defense for Dallas’ grandest fashion expo.

I know some of you may be wondering “Why, Jason, would someone need a security guard at a fashion show?”

Still others may ask “And why, Jason, would they pick you to do it, seeing as you are a 140 lb weakling who tends to fall down without provocation? (no offense, of course.)”

To question one, I say “Bah, don’t ask me. Probably something to do with models and their creepy fans.”

To question two, I respond “None taken. I tried to explain my falling down tendencies beforehand, but they seemed to think I was definitely the man for the job. And anyways, who am I to turn down cash?”

So that’s how my life went last week. I was stationed at a door and ruthlessly questioned anyone who came in it thusly: “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a badge?”

I know it seems harsh, grilling perfectly innocent-seeming people like that, but that fashion wasn’t going to secure itself. Plus, I got to sit on a kick-ass high stool, so’s I would look much more menacing once I could swing my legs underneath my seat like a 6 year-old.

I think I was pretty effective, overall, seeing as no one reported any fashion emergencies on my watch.

There was only one minor snag in the entire week. See, since I had to sit at my station all day long (lest some un-badged, non-fashionista sneak by my watchful glare and get on a runway or something) I always kept a bottle of water with me to keep myself hydrated and alert. This proved to be a problem on my last day, as when I reached down one time to grab said water bottle, I leaned a bit too far off my kick-ass high stool, missed the water bottle, and slammed my head, face-first mind you, into the carpet.

So I had to finish up my tour with a huge carpet burn covering the right side of my face. I tried to pass it off as the result of a tussle with a fashion show law breaker, but I don’t think I made many converts. It’s hard to make up a convincing scenario in which someone tries to sneak into a fashion show and ends up battling with a tiny security guard. It also didn’t help that the woman who gives out the badges saw me fall and would start cackling madly whenever I started in on my version of the story.

Oh well. I get to go back at the end of June to secure some other kind of show, and that’s sure to be even more fun than a barrel full of fashionable monkeys. I’ll keep you updated.