Oh So Scary

What do you do when you can't think of something to do on a Thursday night?

Well if you're us, you run off to a late night showing of The Grudge at the movie theatre across the street from my apartment after finding that video games can't properly fill the void in our lives. We are nothing if not capricious. And not just a little masochistic.

Because I do not do horror movies well. And after last night, I can say with authority that I've grown even worse at them than I used to be. When you're already curled up into a ball due to the previews, generally you ain't gonna have the best experience with the movie itself. (To be fair, they were previews for a scary movie involving a clown (*shudder*) and one for The Ring 2 - This Time You Only Get Six Days, Bitches, which I think I should really get a pass on, because damn, The Ring was one scary mofo of a movie. And clowns, well...)

(Oh, and as an awesome aside, there was the most hilarious trying-to-be-scary trailer for The Boogeyman, which stars a member of the 7th Heaven cast and looks to be the worst scary movie made since They. I mean, they couldn't even get Dakota Fanning like the movie with the clown. They had to hire the poor man's Dakota Fanning to be the Creepy Kid of Foreshadowed Doom and Scariness. That's just weak, yo.)

(And one trailer for a movie that I would totally go see, about dead people who communicate through the electromagnetic spectrum, like photos and audio recordings. Which looks like it will end up formulaic, but has a genuinely scary looking premise.)

In any case, yeah, I totally spent the majority of the movie curled up in my chair with my hands, knees to my chest, covering either half of my eyes or all of my ears, whichever seemed to be the most in danger at the moment. And I would gasp loudly all the damn time and took to muttering things under my breath, mostly along the lines of "don't go in there, are you crazy!", pretty much nonstop once the credits started rolling. I'm not sure when I became completely unselfconscious at movies, but it definitely isn't a sign of good things to come.

The only completely positive thing about the whole experience was that Devon never screamed once, and only left the theatre for a couple of seconds. There was no repeat of the standing up and reaching for the screen in horror that we saw with The Panic Room. Bravo. And as per usual, Sean was quite stoic and didn't complain that the two people he saw the movie with were freaking out like junkies on a bad acid trip.

As for the movie itself, it didn't do that much for me, actually. It wasn't bad, but I judge scary movies by how scared I am after I get home, and damn if I didn't just go about my normal routine and slept just fine. Although when the ceiling creaked when I was digging in the closet for my pajamas, I will confess to yelping and looking around frantically for just a bit.

The only real comment I have about the movie itself, (besides the fact that Sarah Michelle Gellar and Jason Behr were both totally hot and rocked some fantastically horrible dialogue), is (WARNING SPOILER) that the scene with the sister was actually really, really scary to me. Because if I was ever in a horror movie that would totally be me, running to the bed, wrapping myself in the covers and cowering in the corner. For all the good it did her. I felt bad because throughout her whole scene I was whispering that exact advice and then she did it, and...well damn.

The rest of the movie, kinda scary, but kinda pointless.

Sort of like this entry. If you got rid of the scary.

Shift Happens

I have a very unsavory air about me. For the longest time I never understood it, but people inherently do not trust me. Up through my, what, second semster in college, I had never made it into a club without getting pulled over to the side by some police officer checking to see if I was drunk or on drugs. I have been pulled over int the TOM a grand total of three times in my life and each occassion was marked with a long conversation on whether or not I was carrying concealed weapons in the car, as well as a discussion of how drunk I was. I have been mistaken as a drug dealer time and time again.

Finally, we've pretty much nailed down all the elements that make up the untrustworthly-looking aspects of my character. Sadly, they constitute pretty much everything about myself, but what can you do?

The primary stumbling block seems to be my face. Apparently, being gaunt, pale, wild haired, and containing a pair of incredibly deep set eyes (the overhang of my brow could provide shelter for a family of Russian refugees) is a bad combination for a visage. To be precise, I look by turns, angry/brooding (which = dangerous, most likely criminal), and hungry/homeless/crazy (which = dangerous enough to cut you for a sandwich).

This fact was further worsened by my old habit of wearing very large sweaters on my very small frame. I have now been warned that all drug dealers and young homeless people look exactly like I do, and they also wear the same kind of clothes.

So that's great.

In addition to my look and dress, apparently I act shifty too. This is a more nebulous concept, but I think it can be boiled down to: A) I don't look people in the face too often, or when I do, I usually look away immediately afterwards (neuroses are awesome) B) Sometimes I talk to myself, or have a nervous tic, or continue moving my lips after I speak, whatever it takes to make people uneasy. C) I act guilty. Of this, I have no clue what people mean, but they say that I always look like I'm hiding some sort of dark secret. As someone most memorably said the first time they met me: "Did we walk in on you shooting up? Don't look so guilty, everyone does it."

I have made many great strides in overcoming these issues (a handy guide to getting a job even though people think you're shifty) but still people give me a wide berth in general social situations. This can be good (see: grocery shopping is much easier when people fear you) but often it is very bad (see: yesterday when I said hi to another guy at the mailbox and he gave me a weird look and ran off).

And thus I explained why if you see me in real life, you'd probably run away. Or mace me, depending on whether you're a policeman or not.

Good times.

Me Vs. The Birds

So all the birds have apparently flown south for the winter. And by "south", I mean "to Dallas." And by "Dallas", I mean "the trees directly outside my window."

By my estimate, there are approximately 80 bajillion birds who now live around my apartment complex. And in the morning, they are the loudest thing in the world. And in that hyperbole, I'm including the guys with the backhoe and jackhammer who were working on the lot next to the hippie commune church next door. The birds will not be denied. The caw-caw-cawing, all the flapping, the occassional pecking out of the eyes of my neighbors who are out walking their many dogs. How is a man supposed to sleep, I ask you? Nothing cuts into a restful morning's sleep like the screams of the innocent.

Not only that, but the poor Truck of Malfunction is covered in a layer of bird crap so powerful that the entire weekend's worth of thunderstorms did nothing but chemically bond it to the TOM's frame forever (I think it was some sort of mutant-acid rain. This is Dallas, after all.).

When I drive home from work, I drive down this tree-lined street next to a shopping center. There are so many birds flying overhead, that everyone has to turn their headlights on for the length of the road. The birds have eclipsed the sun, that's how far we have fallen.

Yesterday, I was taking out the trash and the nice little girl from upstairs was throwing a ball up the landing to her mom. This is the part of the conversation I overheard:

Cute Little Girl: "Mom, why are there so many birds here?"
Mom (sounds v. tired): "I don't know, honey. Maybe they like it here."
CLG: "Well I hate them."
Mom: "I hate them too, baby."
CLG: "Can't somebody just shoot them all?"
Mom: "Maybe someone will."
CLG: "Can I shoot some?"
Mom: "Maybe tomorrow, honey."

I have the most awesome neighbors.

Complaints of the Elderly

Today's Rather Obvious Realization: I am old.

Yes, we go over this pretty much on a daily basis. But today my younger brother is 14.

14!

I swear, this growing up thing sucks like nothing else. These 6 straight weeks are like an obstacle course of aging reminders. Bam! Your younger sister gets married! Bam! Your even younger brother turns 14! Bam! You vote in your second presidential election! And of course...BAM!!! You turn 23!

Is that even possible? 23? I mean I know I drank a lot in sophomore year, but I don't think it was enough to erase as many years as I seem to be missing.

There has to be some sort of clerical error. I mean, look at my day yesterday:

• Come home from work. Immediately sit down at the computer and compulsively IM my friends. Use the word "totally" three times in a period of less than 45 seconds.
• Have a snack. And by snack, I mean grabbing a cake from the kitchen, a Dr Pepper, and a bag of Pixi Sticks and heading into a delicious sugar coma.
• Watch TV for three hours straight.
• Refuse to clean my room or do the dishes.
• Play video games until it's time for bed.
• Stay up re-reading Harry Potter until it's way past my bedtime.

There should be some rule that if you act like you're still in high school, you don't actually have to age.

And to prove my point even more, I give you a conversation from this weekend:

Mom (whispering): Jason, do you know that your hair is sticking up all over the place?

Jason (as the sullen teenager that he is): Uh....Yeah, mom. It's the style. Geez.

Jason's Brain: Dammit, I knew I should have killed that stylist.

------------------

Oh yeah. Happy Birthday Aaron! May your high school years be less painful than mine.

A Sharp Blow to the Self-Esteem

First off, let me say that I know that I'm not fat. As I've said before, I thank God every day for my metabolism and the fact that I can eat an entire cake in a day and not gain a pound.

That being said, Dear GOD, you would not believe what happened to me last week. Okay, I'm at work, doing work related things, filing and calling and staring off into space and whatnot. I get a call from the front desk that there is a delivery for my office. So I head up there to get it.

[Scene: Front Desk at Jason's Office. Jason walks up.]

Jason: Hi [Cool Secretary Who Runs The Joint]. You said you had a package for me?

CSWRTJ: Oh yeah. Here you go. (she easily picks up a box and places it on her desk)

[It should be noted here that CSWRTJ is about 75 and is a tiny woman.]

Jason: Thanks (Goes to pick up the box.) OOooff. (The box is rather heavy, by Jason standards.)

CSWRTJ: You okay there?

Jason (straining): Oh...yeah...no...problem...

[Jason takes one step backwards. *SNAP* The buckle on his belt literally pops off from the rest of the belt, somehow managing to disengage from the little hole it was in, flys 2 feet forward and lands with an excellent THUNK at the feet of CSWRTJ.]

CSWRTJ: (hiding some laughter) Uhhhh...

Jason's Brain: Dude, your belt just popped off. You've gained so much weight your clothes can no longer hold you. What is going on here? This secretary is trying sooo hard not to laugh at you right now. You must find some way to gracefully exit the situation. Perhaps a joke to ease the pain.

Jason: Uhhhh...could you hand me that? Heh heh. Guess I shouldn't have had that extra donut this morning, huh?

CSWRTJ (Goes from hiding laughter to a stone cold expression the moment the joke is finished): Ha. ha. (completely faked). Sure.

Jason's Brain: Yeah, not so much, chief. Abort! Abort!

Jason (completely embarrassed, as per usual): Thanks! (runs off into the sunset. And by runs off, I mean slowly struggles out of the main office with the huge weight that is the box. And into the sunset, I mean into the hallway out of sight so that he can drop the box and attempt to, in some way, fix his belt. He is unsuccessful.)

And did I mention that this happened at 10:00 in the morning, so I had to go through the entire day like this? Eventually I just abandoned the belt in favor of the oh-so-glamourous dress pants hanging off the hips look. Because I've become a damn high school punk, what with the low hanging pants, even in an office setting.

I still don't understand why the belt exploded as such. I'd like to imagine I have some The Incredible Hulk like powers of growth and strength, but really it's best not to delude oneself too much in a single day.

Boredom is a Dangerous Thing

For the past couple of years, I've been insanely tempted to try the NaNoWriMo thing. But both Novembers I had some excuse, usually class related, as to why I didn't. Now that I do damn near nothing every day, I have lost my excuses.

So even with my mad rationalization skilz, I can't come up with a reason not to get off my ass and start writing. So I'm gonna do it. Do you see what happens when I get bored? Bad things, yo. Because lately, I have sucked at writing. I mean, damn. But heck, it's only 50,000 words, right? How hideously painful could it be?

It is sort of exciting (because I am a dork), to actually get down to the business of it all, even though it will be crap personified. Because I am horrible at starting and/or finishing anything without very strict guidelines, this is ideal; exactly 30 days? That's only 1,667 words per day. No problem, right?

Right now it's sort of like seeing two trains hurtling towards each other on the same track - you know it's gonna be so horrible very soon, but you're secretly really excited to get to see it unfold. There is no better metaphor for Jason writing a book than that.

The only problem now is picking what to write. I have two mostly outlined stories to pick from. One is less focused, more funny and anecdotal and pretty much completely ridiculous. Sort of what I usually write, only (theoretically) structured in book-form. The other is all mapped out, sort of weird and disturbing kind of funny, but was originally supposed to be a short story, so I don't know if I can wring a full novel out of it.

So, comments? Imagine for a moment that you would actually read a book I wrote. Would you prefer something ridiculous called Dead End Books or something weird called Traverses? And would you want to read it? I was thinking about setting up a second blog for it, since I doubt I'll get to do much posting around here when I've got to write so much elsewhere. But that is pretty pretentious, not to (again) mention that it will suck and who wants to read something that sucks? Then again, if you read this...heh.

Anyway, hit that comment button, let me know what you think. And woot, just like that I will try to be a writer. Delusions of grandeur are the best kind of delusions.

Kitchen Ninja

I had an awesome post about foodage, but Blogger ate it, in the theme of pissing me off today.

So we'll just shorthand it:

• I can cook only three things: egg sandwiches, french toast, and cake.
• Eating cake all the time is blasphemous to me, because I am a Pie Whore, but I do it out of convenience. Because dag yo, baking a pie is hard.
• I tried to cook something new last night and ended up with an oven-full of melted doom and a saucepan fused with something that was probably supposed to be turkey dressing.

Thus the moral of the story is that the kitchen-gods hate it when you deviate from the norm. Or that I'm just a bad cook. Perhaps we'll never know which.

Bad Mood

Man, did you ever just have one of those mornings? Everything that could possibly go wrong goes wrong, and then you sit down and take your first sip of coffee and you look down to realize that somehow you managed to put on your olive shirt with your dark olive pants and that you look like a bruised avocado (with really bad hair) and will continue to do so for the rest of the day?

Perhaps it is not a scenario you are accustomed to, but trust me, it suuuuuuucks.

Additionally, I just can't get over stupid things today. In general, I'm a very laid back sort of guy, in that I don't let most things bother me for very long. Bad stuff happens, you deal and move on. But today, damn if I can't get over a stupid grudge I thought I gave up a long time ago.

I know empirically that there's nothing to be done now and dwelling on it will do nothing but piss me off, yet my brain stays fixed on it. Mostly because of a conversation last night, wherein I realized something that I knew about myself, but it makes me feel bad nonetheless:

I am a shallow person.

Heh. Well, obviously, you say. We've covered this before. But now I'm specifically shallow.

More to the point, while I can almost always get over anything, the things I find hardest are situations in which I get burned over money. I get over fights and insults and relationship stuff, but God help you if you cost me $2,415.75. I'll do the whole forgive and move on thing, and then I think I'm over it, until something happens like last night and I'm all "If I had that big wad of money, this would not be a problem," and I'm right back in it.

I guess I'm just too analytical and budget-minded with money. There are plenty of what-ifs in relationships and whatnot, but things with number values are way too easy to calculate. Damn my math skills.

So yeah, neurotic much?

Resolved: Today I will get over myself. Or cut that guy who screwed me over. Whatever works.

Ooh, and later on I have an exciting cooking misadventure to recount. I'm all over the place today.

Spendy McSpendalot

So yesterday was National If You're a Woman Don't Spend Any Money Day. I know this because the radio told me, and the radio never lies. Thus, apparently in honor of this fact, I went out and spent a crap-load of money on pretty things to make my life more enjoyable.

First, I rocked Best Buy for the first season of Arrested Development (which made me inadvertently laugh so loud that Crazy Neighbor from across the breezeway was all "what the hell was going on last night?" when I saw him leaving for work today. (Quiet, Crazy Neighbor, how's about you stop creeping me out with your blacked out windows and pitch black apartment interior and excessive computer equipment? (I seem to have fallen off track. Exeunt Parentheses.)))

However, my love for Best Buy continues to wane. First, they run out of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind on the day it comes out, then they totally lie to me when I call to ask if they had the AV cable I needed for work. Then yesterday I had to dig through the DVD box sets to find the AD because they can't be bothered to put it with the rest of the new releases.

Bad form, y'all. Keep this up and I'm totally gonna start going to that craptacular Circuit City (even though the salespeople there are so dumb that I have to resist the urge to clap my hand to my forehead and gasp everytime they say anything. Swear to God: "I don't know if this computer has RAM. I think it only plays DVDs") a mile down the road. But AD was on sale, so the tenuous love affair continues.

Next, I hit the mall (have I mentioned I hate malls? Because I do. With the fiery passion of a thousand suns. Full of all those damn punk kids with the damn loud music and their long hippie hair. Hi, I'm bitter and old. And only slightly kidding.) because Jason for serious needs some new work clothes. Exactly five business outfits is no way to go through life. (And it means you have to do laundry every Sunday, no matter what.)

So I get three awesome new shirts that cost roughly what I pay for my entire months worth of groceries, after my personal shopper (not really my personal shopper, but this too-cool Iranian saleslady who has been working at the store everytime I've bought something and has consulted on it all, thus seeming to know me intimately) declares me "flawlessly accented." Which I'm pretty sure is complete gibberish, but sounded like a great thing at the time.

I rounded off my spending extravaganza with some new socks, a full tank of premium gasoline, and a night of daiquiris with Devon.

Meet Jason, single-handedly keeping capitalism alive, one Tuesday at a time.

ADD - Journal Style

Because I can't muster enough energy to compose something lengthy and workable about any one subject, I'm gonna throw out everything I have to write about all in one deliciously excessive post. And then I shall complain for the rest of the week that I have nothing to write about. Sexy how that works out, no?

So, this weekend:

• Friday: Made it to 7:30pm before passing out on the couch like a 70 year-old. A boring 70 year-old. In my defense, I had been up until 3:00 the previous night and ended up getting a total of 2 hours of sleep after the Sprinkler Malfunction of Death occurred outside my window, which was immediately followed by the Summoning of the Authorities to My Neighbor's Apartment. Still, the loss of a weekend night makes me very bitter.
• Saturday: The Truck of Malfunction engaged in a surprising plot twist when it decided to, *gasp*, malfunction as I was heading off to see SMU in yet another glorious loss. Missed game and instead became covered in grease, oil and other painfully smelly things to triumphantly fix the TOM. Am truly a manly grease-monkey. Although afterwards, had to wash with mango-scented body wash, neutralizing most of the manliness.
• Continuing Saturday: Tried to recapture my youth by getting drunk and attending a college party. Had forgotten how much I missed drinking games. Very easy to pick back up, was just like riding a bicycle. . .only drunkenly. Seem to have bruised my knuckles playing WTF (note to self: Wooden tables are out for that sort of game). Felt v. old, but was heartened when freshmen would not believe I was alumnae. This may have something to do with the fact that most alumni who show up seem to be about 30, but I take my victories where ever I find them.
• Sunday: Worked yet another Texas Stadium Job From Beyond Hell. This time I was in charge of scads of money and a tiny tiny booth out on the south endzone. Made more money that ever before, but somehow that translated into less tips than I would have made had I just decided to dance to the music in my head with an empty hat in front of me (or so I'd like to imagine). I blame the very old man who was my second in command and his complete deafness, along with my lovely assistant who was unable to do simple math (6 X 6 = 52? The hell you say?). I most certainly would not blame it on my inefficiency at getting change in any sort of timely manner, or my surly attitude about working after a night of heavy drinking, or my inability to open a bottle of beer without wincing due to my bruised knuckles. It must have been them, I say.
• Continuing Sunday: Went directly from the game to out with freshman brother Randy on his weekend trip to Dallas. Good times all around, even if I was coated in a fine sheen of beer and defeat and dressed as the lost Peruna handler. Realized that one should always be wearing something tighter than a XXXL polo shirt when jaunting down to Oak Lawn. Called it a night early, due to fact that I almost fell over in exhaustion within the first half hour at the bar.

So there. My weekend's worth of stories spent in one huge blast. I feel better now, don't you?

Bookish

I read a lot. Like a lot, alot. I had slowed down somewhat over the course of college but I've sincerely picked up the pace since summer started. Especially in the last 2 weeks. And since this is my blog I get to write whatever boring things I want, I'm compiling a list of the books I've read since the first of this month and a few comments on them.

I'm very willfull, making you read about books that I've read. It could be worse though, I could be doing more movie reviews. And I'm the worst movie reviewer in the history of the world (see: each of my previous attempts, all of which seem to contain the phrase "I liked it a lot."). So as it turns out, you should be thanking me for this. Rationalization is an awesome power, in my hands.

Song of Susannah (Dark Tower Book 6) by Stephen King
I am completely addicted to pulpy Steven King books and this series is the best example by far. I read all 5 before this one slowly and leasuirely over the course of 8 months, just loving how immersed I felt in the whole thing. I tore through this book in literally 3 days, reading over 350 pages in one Sunday. I'm not sure I agree with the whole meta let-me-insert-myself-into-my-work thing, but it worked pretty well. I just finally rationalized it enough to buy the seventh book, but it's on hold until I get through my current read. It's taking all of my will power, believe me.

The Lost World by Michael Crichton
I've read this many times, but I saw part of the movie on TV about a month ago and had to get the bad taste out of my mouth by reading the book again. Just like the one above, nothing satisfies like good old fashion trashy popular fiction. And I love all the evolutionary/extinction discussions in it. They're so delightfully dumbed down, I feel very superior to all the fictional characters.

Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson
In terms of direct enjoyment, I may love this book more than any other. Yes, it is far too long, and yes some of the main characters are boring as all hell, and yes there are parts that I really feel compelled to just skim through, but seriously, there are sections that I love beyond all reason. How to eat Cap'n Crunch cereal? Sexual frustration as a linear equation? Inheritance items strewn across a parking lot as a function of value vs sentiment? Okay, maybe I'm just a math geek, but yeah, LOVE. I pretty much am continually reading this at all times.

The Color of Magic by Terry Pratchett
Had never read any of these books (it's a sci fi series about Discworld, which is exactly what it sounds like) but I got a copy for 50 cents back home and had heard good things. It was surprisingly excellent, just the right kind of funny for me. I haven't gone on to make the plunge into the rest of the series just because there are something like 37 more books. But I'll eventually get around to them.

Boy Culture by Matthew Rettenmund
We've already covered that I'm a whore for popular trashy fiction, but sadly it doesn't end there. I'm truly a whore for trashy gay-themed fiction. I read this book in under 24 hours (from Tuesday afternoon to Wednesday). It's not a great read by any stretch but it sated my apetite for a couple of days. I mean, I understand autobiographic style rarely should go well, but in the end it's hopeful that you might like even one of the characters. Not so much in this book. Definitely not one for characterization junkies. Oh well.

Seventh Son / Ender's Game / First Meetings by Orson Scott Card
If there is such a thing as my favorite author, Card wins, hands down. (That sounds like a pun, but I don't think it is.) For some completely unknown reason, if I start reading an Orson Scott Card book, I cannot stop until I finish, often forgoing sleeping, eating, and watching TV to get through it. I've seriously read Ender's Game at least 10 times and that's an incredibly conservative estimate. I love how well Card can create characters you absolutely must root for and love in just a few short sentences. And by the time you've invested an entire book in them, you feel sad to see them go. He's not so great on plot, but perfect on writing characters and perfect dialogue. I read Ender's Game over 2 lunches last week when I forgot my current book at home (for some reason I have a copy in the truck of malfunction), I knocked out First Meetings during commercials of football games on Saturday, and read all of Seventh Son while waiting for my beer serving adventure at Texas Stadium to begin and end (there was a lot of waiting around going on). I do enjoy Seventh Son but the entire Alvin Maker series is my least favorite of Card's. Alternate histories are awesome (see the next entry) but some of the completely impractical elements sort of slow down the story for me. Not that it isn't completely awesome.

Okay, I've wasted a lot of time here and there's still more books to go, so I'll forgo them all except the one I'm currently on.

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrel by Susanna Clarke
An alternate history of England, wherein there was a dedicated practice of English Magic. It's a strange premise, but if there's something I can't pass up it is a fully realized world, in any form. I love the Harry Potter books and can read through them all in a week and be ready to read them all again in a day, not necessarily for the prose or the story, but for the complete sense of atmosphere they create. I have the same thing with the Lord of The Rings series, only I draw out the experience as long as possible. I usually take at least a month to get through all six books, just because they're so comfortable and easy to pick up and read and set down and go on.

All that blathering just to say that I've been reading JS&MN for almost a month already and am barely halfway through. I really like it and it's possibly the first book that I've not felt the need to get through quickly. It's an excellent mix of history, funny, and interesting. Something everyone should read. I'm sure I'll have more to say once I actually get around to finishing it. Ath this rate, it'll be sometime next year.

Wow. Let's just look back and realize that I am a huge dork. And that wasn't even all the books. Crap. In contrast to the last post, we'll try and pick up the excitement factor next time.

That's Dr Pepper To You

I know I said the next entry would be about books, but man, I must tell this story.

Because I know from bizarre, and damn.

So for work today I had to run down to Mockingbird Station for some random errand (for those of you who do not live in Dallas, Mockingbird Station is an upscale-ish shopping center, housing the local independent movie theatre, Urban Outfitters, etc.)

I park over in the side lot and start the trek over to the place of erranding, when I notice something odd. There is this girl standing over on the corner. She's wearing this really, really tight, white, sleeveless, midriff-baring t-shirt and a super short maroon miniskirt.

This is not in and of itself odd, that exact ensemble being the required wardrobe of most SMU girls, but the thing that sets it off is the white paper hat that she is wearing. The same kind that you would see in old ice cream parlors and the like. It has a Dr Pepper logo on it.

While I am pondering this, I look around and suddenly realize that they're everywhere. Swarms of girls wearing the exact same outfit have completely covered Mockingbird Station. Every corner, blocking store entrances. Just standing and smiling. I silently wonder if the revolution has indeed taken place and I just missed the memo. And it was a Dr Pepper Revolution.

I decide not to worry about this and head off on my errand. As I am walking, I finally get an idea of what is going on, as I hear some guy ask one of the drones: "So what's up with all of you?"

Oh, foolish man. You should not engage them, no matter how pretty they are.

The spiel begins: "Did you know that next week a new flavor of Dr Pepper comes out?!?!" She says in a manner than I would generally reserve for announcing the return of Jesus, or perhaps the arrival of Christina Aguilera.

She follows this up with a death stare at the guy to answer her, whilst a crowd of the Dr Pepper Whores (DPWs) begin to circle around him, blocking all chances of escape.

"Um, No?" (He realizes he is so doomed.)

"Cherry-Vanilla Dr Pepper!" she shouts, triumphantly, her eyes blazing.

[At this point I completely believe this is some sort of joke. Cherry Dr Pepper? Maybe. Vanilla Dr Pepper? Sure. Cherry-Vanilla Dr Pepper? Hellllllll no. And yet...behold.]

The staring begins again. The guy, obviously missing the imaginary question they're waiting on, starts to panic, but recovers.

"Ah! Oh... That's nice. Yeah! So, are you giving out samples?"

The crowd of DPWs are momentarily stunned.

"Uhh, no," the head DPW snots out. "We're not giving anything out. We're here to raise awareness of the great new flavor of Dr Pepper --- Cherry-Vanilla Dr Pepper!"* Again with the fierce, fiery eyes.

(*I swear that was the exact line: "To raise awareness of Dr Pepper." Jesus-tapdancing-Christ.)

At this point I finally gave in and accepted the fact that this must be real and the candid camera people were not gonna be busting out of the store for a great laugh. Sadly, I went on my errand.

As I was headed back to my Truck of Malfunction, the largest tour bus I have ever seen pulled up along side my truck. It was covered with a huge Dr Pepper logo and more Dr Pepper regalia than I imagined existed in the entire world. All of the DPWs lined up and began filing in. There were literally at least 40 of them. The bus took off just as I was starting my truck of malfunction, no doubt to send the DPWs to another part of Dallas to spread awareness of Dr Pepper.

They will be sorely missed.

Work It

Man, I am falling behind. Damn all the shiny and colorful things that distract me so easily. I'll try to make up for it by posting as many boring stories as rapidly as I can.

Speaking of boring stories, for my big three day weekend (thank you bankers, and your complete love of declaring holidays for pretty much anything) I was looking forward to a full schedule of staring blankly at televised football games and eating junk food until I became one with the couch. You know, like ya do.

So of course, I instead took a job working as a beer server at a large professional sports arena. Which is close to the original plan, except that I didn't get to eat anything (let alone junk food) for 12 hours, I didn't get to sit down for 12 hours (let alone on a couch), and I didn't get to watch any football, although I could hear the roar of the crowd who was watching it.

I must say, as jobs go, serving beer at professional sporting events is sort of horrible, and sort of incredibly awesome. Because while it does suck jamming your arm into a bucket of ice water continually for half a day while constantly standing so that you can help people drink through a football loss, there is something to be said for the careful anthropological study of these same football fans.

Seriously, it takes a very interesting and dedicated kind of person to begin drinking at 10:00 in the morning. Especially when it's freakin cold outside and the price of a single drink is more than I generally pay for a six pack. A nice six pack. I had a very real Jane-Goodall-Gorillas-in-the-Texas-Stadium-Mist vibe going on for most of the day.

Plus, for some completely unknown reason, I was very good at getting tips from people. Like, really good. So much so that my stand mates pretty much started pimping me out directly to make a couple of bucks ("Get over there and flex." "Flex, what?" "Nevermind, just get over there and smile at her."). Which I didn't necessarily mind, I do love me some cash, but it really threw a wrench into the whole scientific-observer thing I had going on. It's hard to pretend to be Mr. Impartial Science Guy when you're flirting with 35 year old women in a thinly veiled pretense to part them with an extra 50 cents.

In any case, while I was completely wiped out from all the work (flirting is hard, yo) I did make some excellent cash so I could actually do things this week, and it only took up roughly 1/6 of my weekend. Which left a good 5/6 for Couch Fusion and Football, which will totally be the name of my second album.

Next up: Jason writes an entry about all the books he read last week, because there was way too much action in this entry. Gotta slow it down a bit.

"Horace is a Carrot" - A Short Story

Once upon a time, there was a carrot named Horace. All that Horace wanted to do in his life was grow up to be the main dish at a fancy restaurant. But everyone always told him, 'Carrots are not main courses. Carrots are side dishes.' Even his mom. But she was eaten by an industrious rabbit, so he didn't put much stock in what she said. So every day he did his best to become the perfect carrot, so one day he would be picked and sent to a gourmet restaurant, which would complete the first stage of his plan.

And indeed, he became one of the best carrots in the world. He was picked and as luck would have it, he was sent in a shipment to the opening of a new gourmet restaurant in New York. But still, he had no plan on how to become a main course. Everyone was right, there was no place for a carrot in a main course. People want starches or protein as a main course. Roots are always pushed aside.

But he refused to give up!

He tried many bold and daring plans to become part of the main dish. On the first day, he inched his way out of the vegetable bin and creeped towards the stove where the main course was made, in the hope that someone might see him and put him in. But alas, someone saw him and threw him back into the bin.

And he was very sad.

The next day he tried to disguise himself as part of the ingredients in the filet mignon dish, but when the chef saw him he said “Bah, vhat iz this karrot duuing in my ingredientz?" and threw him back in the bin.

And Horace was sad again.

The third day was Horace's last chance, because the restaurant always threw away old vegetables three days after they came in. 'It's hopeless!' Horace thought. 'Mom was right, I'll never be a main course.' And Horace contemplated suicide.

'Anything is better than becoming part of a salad.'

So he decided to become part of a main course in his spectacular suicide. He would throw himself into the pasta maker, killing himself, while at the same time making him part of the pasta which was part of the main course that night.

'It's better than nothing.' Horace decided.

But still, he was sad, never actually realizing his dream of becoming a main course. So the night went on, and he slowly carried out his plan. he inched his way out of the salad bin and across the counter to the pasta maker. It was with a heavy heart that he began to toss himself into the mix, when suddenly the doors to the kitchen burst open!

'Nobody move! This is a surprise health inspection,' the health inspector said.

Horace froze, afraid to give away his position when everyone was so quiet. Slowly, the health inspector went around checking all the stations for any health code violations. All went well until he reached the pasta maker.

'What is this carrot doing out here on the counter? This is most unsanitary. He's in the main course preparation area. What if someone were allergic to carrots? There could be a lawsuit. I'm afraid I'm going to have to write you up and shut you down.'

Horace was mortified. He had ruined the restaurant all because of his irrational wish. 'Vait. Vait, Eww doo not undeerstand.' The chef said to the health inspector, thinking quickly. 'Zee karrot, he is part ov a new main deeesh I am creating. Called Carrot....um....Carrot Vesuvius! It will be my finest creation!' 'Yeah right.' Said the health inspector. 'Everyone knows carrots are only side dishes.'

But the chef grabbed Horace up and began to spotaneously create a carrot main course. He specially peeled him an set him in a bed of pasta, pointing upward, and added decorative garnishes and finished it off with a healthy does of pasta sauce, like hot lava running down the side of a mountain. 'See? Is the perfect creation. C'est magnifique!'

'Well I suppose it's not a violation then,' admitted the health inspector. 'It's very interesting. Good luck then.' And the health inspector left.

'Whew, that vas a close von. Ah well, at least I have a nice new main dish for tonight.' said the chef.

Thus Horace fufilled his lifetime wish to become a main course, and he was the happiest carrot who ever lived.

While Carrot Vesuvius became all the rage in the avant garde scene in New York. And everyone lived happily ever after.

The End.

-------------------------------

And y'all can just be quiet, because I love my story. I don't care what anyone says.

Another Sign That I Need to Get Out More

TV News Anchor Last Night: Really need that first cup of coffee in the morning to get going? You might need it more than you realize. Surprising new news on addiction, tonight at 9:00.

Jason: Hey! Shut up, you don't KNOW ME!

sigh.

(Resolved: I will try to talk to the television less. And when I do talk to it, I will not expect a response.)

I am Soo Not an Adult

I make a pretty good run at pretending to be all adult and whatnot.

I gots me a good paying job, an apartment to myself, and a slew of bills that I always cover on time. I spent 45 minutes a few days ago just staring a coffee tables trying to find one that would complement my living room well. And as much as it pains me to say it, I do enjoy spending the occasional (read: most every) Friday night staying home and watching the TV.

Now all that said, I am the anti-adult in most all other aspects. Key points:

• When I go out for lunch, I either come home and have lunch meat sandwiches and chips, exactly like I used to when I was in elementary school or I go to McDonalds. Like, seriously, every day. I was a McDs fiend back as a child and now that I get to pick where I eat on my own, hells yes I'm gonna go eat there every day. Whateva, you're not the boss of me!
  
• I shop like a 5 year old. I went to the store today, you know what I got? Let's go down the list:

1. 2 boxes Fruit Roll-ups
2. 2 bags Pixi Sticks
3. 2 boxes Cake Mix (chocolate and strawberry)
4. 5 frozen pizzas
5. 24 pack Dr Pepper
6. 1 jar of pickles
7. 1 loaf of bread
8. 1 box instant hot chocolate
9. 1 box toaster strudel
10. 4 candy bars (assorted)

I mean, look at that. I apparently live like a 1st grader would if he went all Freaky Friday with his older, just-got-out-of-college brother.

Top it all off with my stuffed beaver collection and the amount of video games I play, it's a wonder I'm able to survive on my own.

When Good Heads Go Bad

In case you thought my luck with haircuts had changed, think again.

Bad Omens before 9:00 am

How to tell that today will be a bad day, in under 2 hours.

7:15 am: Wake up, shamble about, shower, shave, and dress yourself completely without thought.

7:55 am: Leave house, head out to car. Return to house to retrieve cell phone. Return to car. Return to house to retrieve signed papers. Return to car. Return to house to turn off iron. Return to car. Return to house to lock the door for the 5th time today.

8:15 am: Woman at the bakery is giving you really odd looks. What, she got a thing against muffins?

8:20 am: Enter mirrored elevator to go up to your office. Realize that you forgot to brush your hair before you left. Suddenly understand odd looks from before.

8:30 am: Head to bathroom to fix hair. Also realize that you 1) forgot your belt, 2) forgot your glasses, 3) misbuttoned your shirt, and 4) are wearing one black sock and one blue sock.

8:31 am: Start your 9 hour workday.

Hells yes, let us bring it on.