Counting Down From 100

Apropos to the height of summer (when you're most likely to find yourself outdoors without a shirt on) I had been looking for a new exercise program that I could get into without killing myself, and/or incurring the cost of a gym membership.

I was ready to despair and start pricing out exactly how many years of debt I would accrue by signing up with various local gyms, until I ran across this lovely website, One Hundred Push Ups. It completes me in every exercisable way possible.

1. Takes almost no time whatsoever
   
2. Can be done in the privacy of your own bedroom
3. Is simple to do
4. Has measurable results that are quick and easily recognizable
5. Did I mention that it takes practically no time at all?

It's not a program designed to do much of anything really, except get you good at doing push ups, and in the meantime give you a nice upper body. And hot damn, it really works. I'm all the way into week 5, and may actually reach the expressed goal of 100 consecutive push ups in a single round. Which is absolutely insane, considering when I started I could only do about 31 before collapsing into a sweaty heap.

It has the benefits of exercising without, y'know, actually exercising longer than 10 minutes every other day. Which is pretty sweet. And it's gotten me to the point where I feel like I can move on to a full-on exercise program without potentially dying halfway through.

I completely forget what the point of this post was at this point, so I guess this is just a shill post: Go exercise. And if you're like me and don't want to, just do this thing. It's easy and awesome.

(Side note: still not going outdoors without my shirt on, though. People around The Village are way too attractive. Bums me out. Also, still wildly pale as they haven't fixed the pool in my complex yet. Maybe next summer.)

No Good, Terrible, Bad Days

I was in the worst mood.

I had just spent 9 completely unproductive hours in the office and all I had to show for it were three new paper cuts, 2 new bills that I hadn't realized would be due, and a splitting headache to boot.

When I got home and found my apartment smelling terrible due to a lack of kitchen cleaning, I was about ready to lose it. But I was feeling just put-upon enough that my righteous indignation carried me all the way through a really thorough cleaning of the whole apartment.

Afterward I was still in a funk and riding that same wave of adrenaline, so I decided to work out too. I ran through a Tae bo routine (because I live at least 8 years behind the rest of the world at all times) and then powered through a whole bunch of weightlifting until I was just completely exhausted, and just about dripping with sweat.

Finally I sort of felt my anger at the day melting away. All I wanted to do was crash and watch the last new movie I had from Blockbuster - The Assassination Jesse James Blah Blah Etc and Whatnot. I figured if there was ever going to be a time when I was willing to sit through a 3 hour period drama about the Old West, it would be right then - when I could barely raise an arm, let alone turn get off the couch and turn off a DVD player in disgust.

Except that, once I had toweled off the majority of my sweat and grabbed the DVD envelope, it turned out that they had sent me the wrong disc. Instead of The Assassination of Brad Pitt by One of those Affleck Boys, I had Disc Two of Ellen DeGeneres Here and Now.

Man, I was so steamed. Not that I really have anything against Ellen, but still, when you're expecting hot guys in cowboy hats and you get a lesbian doing stand-up, it's a tough blow to roll with. Really, it was just the whole day and that was the last straw. But I think I was still really pumped up on all the testosterone from the workout, because rather than just collapsing on the couch for a good cry (as my normal response would be) without thinking, I gathered up all my DVD's and bolted for my car to Blockbuster. I was going to find something there that I really wanted to watch and somehow salvage this terrible day.

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I entered Blockbuster with an air of restrained fury and was determined to find a movie and get out in under 10 minutes. When the guy at the checkout counter faltered in the middle of his routine greeting, I probably should have realized things would never be that smooth:

"Hi! Welcome to Blo-*ahem*"

Instead I assumed that maybe my withering glance in his direction had shocked him into silence. About 3 minutes later, though, I caught a quick glance of myself in the reflection of a window, and understood that it was probably my appearance that had shut him up. It also explained the little twitch of a laughing smile he repressed too.

Because in my mini-fury, I had forgotten that I was still in my workout outfit - super small black running shorts, XXXL muscle tee that hung off my shoulders so far that it revealed better than half my chest, and my hair standing straight into the air about 10 inches, from being held back in a headband for an hour.

Whatever. I didn't care, I've got a fine self body image, and I made peace with my hair months ago. I grab my movie (The Descent - I want to see some cave-dwelling monsters get their skulls crushed in. Still very full of testosterone.) and get in line. There were only two other people ahead of me, and they were both high school girls. At first they were giggling and messing around with the various impulse items in the line. As I came up in line they fell into a hushed series of whispers. I tried to tune out as much of their antics as possible, and focused on the rack of candy to my side.

Just visualizing getting home, watching some mindless horror, and putting this horrible day behind me--

"Hey," says Girl #1. They've both turned to stare at me.
"Uh, me?" I look up from the bag of Pixi Sticks I am reading and trying to talk myself out of buying and look around to make sure I'm not blocking someone they know.
"Yeah, you," she saids giggling, punctuating her 'you' with an index finger to my shoulder.
("Is she picking a fight with me?" I start to wonder.)
"What's your name?" She cocks her head to one side and just her hip to the opposing side.
"Uh, Jason." I start praying in my head that this is not going where I think it's going.
"Oh, cool. Jaaason." She draws my name out and smiles. Maybe she's just drunk. Or high.
"I'm Brie. This is Candice. What'cha renting? The Descent? That looks scary. I really like scary movies. But only if I have someone to hold on to." By the end of this rambling line of thought, she's officially moved into my personal space.
"Ahh, I see," I murmur as quietly as possible, narrowing my eyes and attempting to back up, only then realizing that I had already backed up as far as possible and was pressing by back into the candy rack.
I dart my eyes over to the friend, to see if I can find some hint about what's going on here. Is this an elaborate dare? She's got this appraising look going on, and I suddenly really wish that I had more of a shirt on than I do right at this exact moment. High school girls are not this aggressive, right?
"So, are you here by yourself? Is this your first week off from school too?"

It doesn't matter that I'm still completely sort of pissed off from this day, or that I'm basically half naked and covered in sweat in a Blockbuster - I completely just bust out laughing. I don't mean to, but seriously. Like, uncontrollable laughter, from deep within. The two girls stop and look at each other a little puzzled, but don't join in. I realize right then that they might have actually been serious, but I cannot stop laughing. Luckily, almost simultaneous with my inappropriate bout of laughter the guy up front calls for the next person in line.

The girls tell me to go ahead, since they're still waiting for another friend of theirs, starting to look at me a little funny. I get it down to a mild chuckle and tell them thanks, and that it was nice to meet them.

The checkout guy can obviously tell something strange is going on, but he's not going to get involved.

As I head out the main door, my principle interrogator calls out "Bye Jason!"

Determined not to bust out laughing, I turn and wave goodbye. As creepy as it was, I suppose one should still take it as a compliment.

And turning back to leave, I manage to misjudge how far the door will open and slam half my body against the frame. And then - reaching back to steady myself from falling - I crunch the little finger on my right hand against the other door handle.

Not daring to look back I virtually sprint back to my car and vow to never leave the house ever again.

Worst. Day. Ever.

Since this Blog is Only About Hair Now

I now present the picture that was the final straw in convincing me that I should get a haircut, and at the same time is quite possibly my favorite picture ever taken of me.



I'm now sporting a much cleaner and professional cut, but it doesn't photograph anywhere nearly as well.

I mean damn.

(I promise that someday there will be actual content forthcoming again, but that day is not today. Maybe tomorrow.)

Vainposting and the Art of Not Caring

My long term battle with my hair is well documented.

At this point, we've sort of come to an impasse - I don't like it, it doesn't like me, and we've accepted that fact. There was a bit of a scuffle very early in January, when it refused to conform to anything remotely professional looking and I responded by cutting it all off to within an inch of my scalp. But that was resolved pretty squarely in favor of the hair, when I got the pictures back from my January visit to Austin and I looked like the world's most confused and drunken escaped mental patient in every single photo.

But lately I've just let the hair do its growing thing, and it's been perfectly happy to just there lie like a bushy mass on my head. Part of this hair indifference included letting semi-professional hair people do pretty much whatever they wanted to it for the first quarter of the year. When Jordan went to cosmetology school for a month and needed a hair dying model person, I volunteered my unruly mop for a coloring. And then the next month when his friend David needed a model as well, I signed up for a second coating without a thought.

People kept just politely nodding their heads and secretly rolling their eyes when I said that I really didn't care what my hair looked like, but I quite literally meant it. I would still attempt to tame it into something respectable on the off chance that it might finally have given up the battle, but I had truly decided to make a concerted effort not to put too much stock in how my hair reflected my worth as a human being.

And omigosh, it's so great. I realize now that the difference between great hair and normal hair is so much wider than the difference between normal hair and bad hair. And that the difference between bad hair and truly horrible hair is the widest gap of all. Or more plainly - there's pretty much nothing I can do to my head to get out of the normal-bad range, and no one in the world is going to care one way or the other.

So now I go with all out non-caring - I wash my hair in the morning, towel it dry, and then run my hands through it until it's roughly flat on my head. And then I don't mess with it for the rest of the day. Except on occasions when I'm in the privacy of my own home and I wear a headband to keep the hair out of my eyes, as previously disclosed. It's so awesome. And functional.

Plus, it doesn't look that terrible.

Okay, maybe I do look like I've wandered straight out of an 80's movie, what with the feathered nature of how it now falls. And sure, it's gone from 'mildly bushy' to 'so bushy that it brushes the ceiling of car when I get in' while rapidly approaching 'white boy afro' levels. And yes, I have grown out my sideburns down my chin, to offset the 80's look of the upper hair by doing a throwback to the mid 1920's. ...Wait, I forget exactly where this whole story was going.

Um, hair. Yes. Not caring is awesome. I never want to go to a barber ever again. We'll see how long I can hold out. We're currently somewhere around month three. I probably give it another three weeks, roughly, or until I can see my hair at all times in my field of vision. That's usually what causes me to snap. But maybe my willpower and self image have gone up so much lately that I'll be able to last for ages without caring what others think of my crazy 80's mane.

(Yeah, seriously, three weeks)

The Worst Conversation to Start a Friday On

Receptionist: So, got any big plans for this weekend?

Jason: Nothing too special - going out to dinner with my family on Saturday; it's my birthday this Monday.

Receptionist: Really?! How old will you be? Wait, don't tell me, I'm really good at guessing.

[She eyes Jason up and down carefully.]

Receptionist: 32!

Jason: Uh, 26 actually.

Receptionist: Ohhh... Well, I probably estimated high because... you seem so mature.

[Jason nods, with a tight smile.]

Jason: Of course.

Fin

How I Met Paranoia

Okay, so I'll assume everyone watched How I Met Your Mother last night, because why wouldn't you? I mean, it's awesome.

So since you watched it, you know that the show has officially hit its hilarious stride again after floundering for a couple episodes to start the third season. This was the fifth episode of the year, titled How I Met Everyone Else, wherein Ted recounts to a new girlfriend the various ways he was introduced to the whole gang.

This functions as a wonderful plot device, and has the side effect of letting us see college Ted with the crazy hair and decorative spectacles, an image that never fails to crack me up. But the biggest laughs of the night come from Barney's Hot/Crazy Scale, which is the device he uses to determine the date-ability of girls, wherein a potential mate must have a hotness to crazy ratio of at least 1:1 to fall in the datable realm.

Which is funny, right? I mean, I should know - seeing as I wrote that exact post, 3 years ago! (Which has since been spammed to hell and back, btw.) Granted mine did not have a fancy air-drawn graph, or the hottness of Neil Patrick Harris doing the explaining. But the math is right there! I even provided (provode? provided.) examples! (See show? I can steal jokes too.)

Dammit, TV! Quit digging through my life for your plotlines!


(And yes, I'm aware that now I look completely crazy, as this is two consecutive posts detailing how the magic box in my living room is stealing my ideas and presenting them as its own. Just leave me to my rantings.)

Self Involvement at Its Peak

Do you ever get the feeling your whole life is a small part of a gigantic Truman Show-like experiment? Plenty of people have told me they get these notions, when it seems like life is catering to their needs seemingly more so than would an unforgiving natural world. In simpler, less-media soaked times I would assume people would chalk it up to religion, fate, karma, or whatever.

Usually I don't get these feelings, primarily because my life is boring almost all of the time, and if there was a show based around me, it would have been cancelled ages ago.

That said, I think there's a 70% chance that the new television show Pushing Daisies was created specifically with me in mind. As in, someone sat down and polled my friends, read my blog, tracked down my myspace, and then secretly observed me from the nearby bushes for several days until they had a nice long list of things that appeal to me. Then they took said list and combined all the items in such a way as to make me entirely unable to look away from an utterly ridiculous show about a man who brings people back from the dead (but only for 60 seconds).

Don't believe me? Take a look at a list of major and minor plot points from just the first three episodes:

• Cute boy with an unrelentingly amazing smile (my one true weakness)
• Tons of Pie (no wait, that's my one true weakness)
• Small, dark-haired, earnestly-optimistic-pretty girl (we've gone over my issues with the whole Regina Spektor, Zooey Deschanel, Mary-Louise Parker thing, right?)
• Difficulties with physical closeness
• Accents
• Musicals (particularly featuring Wicked and/or Olivia Newton-John)
• Cheeses
• Beaver themed t-shirts
• (Also, the term "Beaver Boy" used in the non-entendre way that is usually reserved for myself)
• Appallingly sappy love stories
• Big-time vocabulary words and resulting wordplay and puns (The Pie Hole. Seriously.)
• Eating disorders

Okay, I'll give you the fact that many of these things are pretty universally loved (or experienced), on their own. But all taken together at once? Unlikely. Many a gay boy may love his musicals, cute guys, and love stories, but would he also like beavers and big vocabularies? A gourmand who is a nature lover might adore pie, cheese, and have an affinity for beavers and other aquatic mammals, but probably wouldn't be a big musical fan.

What I'm saying is that if it's not directly aimed at me, it's targeting a very, very tiny slice of a demographic that I happen to reside in.

I do take comfort in the fact that there are some quirks to the show which are not directly tailored to me, which gives hope to my non-paranoid side. There is a feature of knitting, which does not apply to me (I can only crochet), and there is the bit with the one-eyed mermaid aunts (so far as I know, I have no relatives in the side-show industry, disfigured or otherwise. I did have that stint as a carny, but I don't think that counts).

Anyways, mostly what this boils down to is that I love this show so much that it hurts. It almost feels like narcissism - loving this show is like loving a part of myself - but without most of the gross connotations that usually brings up.

So that means that all y'all should watch it. Because you're entertained by me, right? Therefore it stands to reason that the show will also entertain you. Although you may go into a diabetic coma from the resulting sweetness. (That's the other thing that doesn't really fit - I'm waaay more jaded than this show. But it's still early. I was once idealistic too. Give it until sweeps to get dark.)

Oh, and also if any future episodes center around badminton, I'm officially going to sue. I'm pretty sure they've got one of those disclaimers that runs during the credits about any similarities to people living or dead being purely coincidental, but one more match and I bet I could convince a panel of 12 people that I'm not that crazy.

Heightened Other Senses

I have gone deaf in my right ear. As in no hearing whatsoever, except for a very loud rushing sound. And I'm almost certain there is nothing that is actually rushing near me.

Considering the just-completed weeks of illness, I think my body is officially in full on riot mode now. This is so lame. Are you allowed to just trade in your entire body for a new one yet? Because I want an upgrade. Maybe to one with a visible six-pack or at least less of a caveman brow.

The future should be now.

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Also, I thought when you lost one sense, the others became all heightened and more powerful. Apparently that is a load of crap. Now not only can I not hear, but my vision seems to be getting actively worse. Granted, this is probably because I haven't changed out my monthly contacts since something like December, but still. It's the principle of the thing.

Wait, maybe it's just one other sense that is heightened. Because, man, I got a paper cut just now, and that was pretty much the most exquisite pain I've experienced in a while. Of all senses to go up, what are the odds that Touch is the one I get? Lame.

This just increases the likelihood that when I eventually develop my awesome mutant power, that it's going to be a stupid one, like that kid from the X-Men movie who's special power was having a green tongue. Or the other kid who could just change television channels with his mind.

Although I wouldn't mind having that power. I hate looking for the remote control.

But I'd much rather get that whole super-hot-looks/ice making power, instead.

Unlikely apparently. Double lame.

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Speaking of TV (weren't we?), Frnak has some sort of obsession with obtaining television capture ability on his computer, so that he can edit videos and become one of those Internet famous guys. Which is admirable in its own right and has somehow resulted in him gifting me my very own TV tuner to attach to my computer. It's a little convoluted in how we got there, but I do love it when people give me gifts, so I'm all on board. (Thanks, Frnak!)

But last night I went to install it, and found out that somehow the television drivers conflict with my aftermarket video card that I installed ages and ages ago. I say "found out" like it was some simple little operation, but in truth it was an epic struggle with the computer wherein mostly I kept shouting at the screen and kicking the tower, while Frnak stared at me like I had lost my mind. It was not my finest computer-science related moment.

I know there must be some way to work around this (setting up two different profiles for the different cards, etc) but I certainly can't find it. This only serves to highlight exactly how far gone my computer skills have fallen - now pretty much to the point where I'm really glad that my degree is so carefully bound up in a frame on the wall, so it's impossible for anyone to take it away.

I mean, it's in a frame, it can't be revoked, right?

Whatever. Triple lame.

It's going to be a long day.

Wired

Hi.
(Hi hi.)

How's it going?
(Right now)

Am I properly portraying my mental state through formatting?
(Englished!)

So I started taking some new allergy medication yesterday night, and then again this morning. I've been having some really bad allergy things happening lately, like bad headaches and the uncontrollable twitching of my right eyelid. Along with the normal sneezing, watery-eye, zombified Jason things that usually happen.

These new pills are actually old pills. They're part of that regimen that I was taking back during that really bad allergy attack in October. But I stopped taking everything when I realized that the nighttime pills were causing me to become wildly paranoid. Like "I think there's a monster in the bathroom carefully timing its breathing with mine so I won't be alerted to his presence" sort of paranoid.

But now I'm just taking half of the drugs (the daytime part), and the results are completely something else.

To wit: I'm wired.

No wait.

I'm Wired.
(In italics. Large-size. And Capitalized. You see?)

This results in quick speaking, super focused, hummingbird type darting around the office. I am one million times more productive than ever before, and also a little insane right now. My eyes feel very open. I finished about 4 days worth of work before lunch today. I'm afraid I have the crazy eyes going on, also, because of the wideness. I'm being really friendly too. I actually engaged some random person in the office in idle conversation, without being spoken to first. I think we were talking about the Mavericks. Maybe, I'm not sure. I don't remember that far back (3 hours).

This is why I don't like drugs. Why can't allergy medication just treat the symptoms without sending me off on some strange trip. Suddenly I'm some sort of bubbly, efficient, normally socialized human being? That's not me. Not me at all.

Stupid drugs.

(Whee! Wired!)

Did I mention that I'm having a really good hair day today? It's totally sweet. You should see it; I'm looking goooood.

When I Suddenly Hate Things That I Once Loved

I spent over 3 hours this morning writing the copy and formatting the text and pictures in what amounts to a spam email. I'm talking dedicated craftsmanship in every facet: I rewrote the language in it over 15 times, I tweaked the spacing, I changed the clip art, I reworked the entire logo and heading for our company, and then redid the entire thing when I realized the format was only compatible with Microsoft Outlook.

I don't know why this is noteworthy in the slightest, except to illustrate exactly how far I have fallen here in the year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Seven.

No matter what, I am way impressed with that piece of spam. It's got to be one of the finest works I have ever seen in its genre that does not mention a Nigerian prince.

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In unrelated news, I can no longer stand Lunchables, as of Tuesday afternoon at 1:07pm. Which has been something of a problem, considering over the weekend I bought one for every day of this week, so I wouldn't waste money going out to lunch (2007 is the year of fiscal responsibility). Now lunchtime has become a dreaded event. I am completely over the little crackers and the processed cheeses and the gross meat, yet I must continue to work with them each day this week. Tomorrow is usually a day of rejoicing (it being Friday and all) and yet all I can see is the lunch hour ahead and my heart sinks.

I don't know what I was thinking back when I used to revel in the deliciousness that was Lunchables. Perhaps I had suffered several blows to the head, and I'm just now getting over them. It's a viable possibility, I'm very accident prone. Anyways, yuck.

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We are on day 14 of the 15 day experiment entitled "Jason seriously tries to grow a beard." It was the worst idea I have had in quite a while (excluding the Lunchable debacle). I look crazed, homeless, and also patchy, because there are portions of my face that simply refuse to grow hair. Why my body refuses to get with the program will forever be a mystery to me.

I have no idea what I was thinking when I started this plan. But I said I would give it a full 15 days to get into shape, and dammit, that's how long it's going to get. I think I would have made an excellent choice for captain of the Titanic. "We set this course last week, it's perfect, I'm not about to change it for some ice."

So yeah, it's not long for this world, but if you want to see me all crazy and potentially homeless, your best bet is in the next day and a half. View while the viewing is horrifying. That's what I always say, at least.