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.

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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.

Theory

Through careful study and evaluation, I have come up with a detailed decision-making model that should benefit all mankind.

The important issue it covers? How To Decide If You Should Date Someone.

How To Decide If You Should Date Someone

Step 1: First you must realize that all people can be ranked somewhere on a Scale of Attractiveness To You. This scale is set up 1 - 10, (you can use decimal places if you're that much of a nerd). It is primarily physically based, (scales of attraction are inherently shallow) but you should also consider other intangibles such as fame, and other tangibles, such as money and/or the car he drives, to come up with a complete attractiveness rating.

For example, while Bill Gates may look like a reject from the Statewide 5th Graders Science Fair, the sheer amount of money he has bumps him up to an 8 on my scale. (And if you're one of those people to whom money is not attractive...what are you doing reading this?)

The scale is something like this:

10 - Incredibly attractive, your ideal person
.
.
5 - Moderately attractive, whatever your "pretty cute" classification is.
.
.
1 - Just barely passes the test for attractiveness, in that you wouldn't kick them out of bed, necessarily, as long as you can keeps the lights off.

Obviously this leaves no room for people you find unattractive. Why would you consider dating someone you weren't attracted to? (Remember, we've already factored in the money to the attractiveness.)

Step 2: The Insanity Scale. Every person in the world has some measure of inherent craziness to them. Trust me, even if they seem like the most well-adjusted person in the world, there is something hiding, just waiting to come out. Thus, when considering a potential SO, you must also rate them on the 1 -10 craziness scale.

1 - Seemingly completely normal, the insanity is quite dormant.
.
.
5 - Pretty crazy, holds several irrational beliefs, or has a nervous tic, or likes Carrot Top, things like that.
.
.
10 - Batshit crazy, believes the gamma people have his house staked out, or bears an eerie resemblance to Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

You can consider general personality traits here (he's boring, or tells jokes that aren't funny) but this should be primarily an insanity meter, not a personality test. This isn't a formula for compatibility, it's one for date-ability.
----
Note: For this test to be completely accurate, you must understand that scoring a 10 on the Attractiveness scale is incredibly hard. All ideals must be met, otherwise the system will fail. Conversely, it does not take much to get high up on the Insanity Scale, because people are all kinds of wacked out. Plus insanity is a lot more objective, so there's less room for fudging on insanity.

Step 3: Take the attractiveness score and divide it by the insanity score. As long as the resulting number is 1 or greater, congratulations, you've picked a winner! Date in good health. Anything less than 1, you're just wasting your time. Too much cost, not enough benefit.

For example: Say you've got this guy. A solid 7.6 on the Attractiveness (very cute, plus drives a BMW), and a 5.3 on Insanity (it seems like he has too close a relationship with his mother, and he's a little too into birdwatching). 7.6 / 5.3 = 1.43. His attractiveness outweighs his quirks, go ahead, date away.

Example #2: Angelina Jolie. A 9.7 on the Hottness scale (girl is smokin', rich, and famous), but a full on 10.00 in Craziness (Adopted Cambodian baby, vial of Billy Bob Thorton blood around her neck, makes out with her brother at award ceremonies). 9.7/10.0 = .97. Sorry, Angelina, it's just not gonna work out. Don't care how hot you are, pure craziness trumps all.

-----------
And that is that.

Actually, there is one other factor.

Step 4: Give yourself the test. If your score is below the 1.0 mark, you have three options. 1) Go see a therapist and get that Insanity score down. 2) Go to a plastic surgeon (or a car dealership), and get that Attractiveness score up. 3) Lower your cutoff to match your own score. That way two 0.459's can find love together.

Huzzah! Now that is that.

----------

The only difficulties with this theory lie in making sure you can spot all the insanity clues early enough to get a correct reading. I advise asking early in the relationship "Are you crazy?" Any answer that is remotely affirmative immediately adds 5 points to whatever you already have as an Insanity score. Also, check their room for any shrines to celebrities or yourself, and make sure they don't talk to themselves too much. Watch out for odd collections and hobbies, as these are often outward indicators of interior madness.

Anyway, use the theory in good health and let me know if there are any tweaks I need to include in future revisions.

Happy Relationship Hunting!

Dorkage: The Dorkening

Watch out, this is one of those internet staple entries that I'm almost too ashamed to put up, but am too lazy to waste, now that it's come down to it.

As it is dictated by my DNA, I went out and purchased the Star Wars Trilogy on DVD the day after it came out.

(I truly believe that the second I was handed that Computer Science degree my DNA was forever and irrevocably altered so that I will always be pale, bedecked in glasses, will sneeze at natural light, be unable to catch a ball, and will immediately buy all things Star Wars immediately on their release. People who know me may contend that had all these traits before I actually received the degree. These people are lying. I was a natural athlete, strong and bronzed, and only engaged in all things cool, until that day I picked up that degree. Anyways.)

It has come to my attention that there are several issues I have with the first movie that I've never really delved into. I think right now would be an excellent time to get into it.

• Luke has got to be the whiniest character in the history of the world that people were actually supposed to eventually like. "Buuuut, I was going into Toche Station to pick uuuppp some power con-vert-teerrrrs!" Shut it, Luke! Dear Lord, I would have bitch slapped that boy 20 minutes in.
• Princess Leia is incredibly resourceful. Somehow she manages to maintain that incredibly difficult Headphone/Bear Claw hairdo throughout the entire movie, enduring hostile takeover of her ship, stunning in the back, torture at the hands of Darth Vader, and escape through a garbage disposal. That is some dedication to your style.
  
• Darth Vader is incredibly effective in all things. Whether crushing some guy's windpipe or smiting Obi Wan, you have to admire the guy's lack of wasted movement, as well as his general bad-ass-itude. Too bad he cocks it up in the end. Who ever told you that you were a great starfighter, huh?
• Tarkin never really did anything for me , as a character. Too much British bureaucracy, not enough ass kicking menace. I find it hard to believe Vader didn't wing him with a lightsaber during Death Star construction. He did manage to wipe out an entire planet, though. Pretty bold, that I'll give him.

I still totally love the movie, though. "I can't see 'im!" said with a heavy Texas accent may be my most often quoted throwaway movie line over my entire life (closely matched by "Do it! Do it now!" from The Matrix.) (Damn, I really am a dork.)

All this and I still have two more movies to go! And the bonus features. Rock on. Just can't wait for Yoda to show up again.

Bandanas and Bartending

So this Sunday I took a bartending job at one of those upscale Dallas Plantation Homes just outside Highland Park. Bartending jobs are usually excellent because A) they pay really well, B) if they're hiring from a temp agency they usually don't need to you to make anything more complicated than a glass of wine or maybe to run a margarita machine, C) tips of the rich are uniformly awesome, and D) serving alcohol to rich people is a source of unending hilarity. You have no idea.

Weirdly, this party was scheduled for mid-afternoon on a Sunday, outdoors. First off, no one in Dallas ever schedules events at the same time as a home Cowboys game unless said event is a Cowboys watching party. I mean it's just not done. Who do these people think they are? Secondly, why on earth would you hold an event at the peak heat time of the day,, at the end of summer? It was wicked hot, with absolutely no wind or clouds. This ended up making the event much more awesome for me, as you will soon see, but still mucho weird-o.

Since I am the low man on the bartending totem pole at this event, I get stuck on outside bartending detail. Which means that instead of being at the front entrance hooking people up with margaritas as they come in, or over at the patio rocking the mimosas, I'm out at the far end of the lawn in the middle of the blazing sun, next to the croquet field, handing out soft drinks and beer to the genteel masses.

(A side note: Rich people are insanely attractive. Maybe it was just that this event screened out all the ugly rich people, but damn, yo.)

So this is not my beautiful bartending gig, seeing as it is ridiculously hot and all I get to do is hand people ice cold beers, which they proceed to drain in front of me in a not-taunting-but-might-as-well-been display of thirst quenching. But at the same time, I've done much worse while temping, for way less money, in much hotter temperatures. This is pretty much par for the course, except as a bonus all these catty old women keep coming up to me and making incredibly bitchy comments about everyone else at the party, which tends to keep everything nice and lively. ("She's had so much work done in the past 3 months I'm surprised her lips still move when she talks.")

I guess, though, that rich people must not spend a lot of time in the heat, because they seemed absolutely sure that I was going to whither and die standing out there in the sun. Every two minutes someone would come up to me "Oh you must be dying!" "Do you need some water?" "Are you sure you're okay?" I think I must have had some big time frail-waif-boy vibes going on, 'cause it was kind of embarrassing. Especially since the rich people usually don't care about the help, so long as the drinks are flowing in the proper direction.

It could have had something to do with the fact that it was something of a charity dinner; it's chic to help the poor, especially when they're serving you stuff.

At first they insisted that I take a very pink cloth napkin, fill it with ice, and drape it around my neck like some sort of bandana gone horribly wrong. It gave me the appearance of an incredibly gay old-time bank robber, who suddenly decided to go straight and start serving alcohol.

Wonderful.

I tried to circumvent the whole hideousness by tucking it into my shirt collar (because these people were damned if they let me take it off, God knows why) but that just made things even worse. 'Cause now it looked like I had no neck, something of a hunchback, and you could still see the pink through the fabric of my shirt. From gay-bank-robber to gay-hunchback. You've come a long way, baby.

The other bartenders ribbed me about it to no end, but I was a strong, proud, independent, obviously-gay-failed-bankrobber/hunchback, dammit.

In the end though, the catty old women decided as a group that it would not do for me to stand out in the sun all day and insisted that I move my bar under the shade of a tree at the far side of the lawn. Which was great since no one wanted to walk that far to get a drink, so I was just me and my pretty, pretty pink bandana, alone together for the rest of the party.

All that, and I got paid too. Jealous, much?

Pop Secret

Before we start, let me begin by saying that for all four years of high school, I planned on becoming a chef once I grew up. It was a lofty goal, so those plans were eventually abandoned, for reasons which will become painfully obvious, momentarily.

It's Saturday night. I'm waiting for a friend of mine to pick me up so's we can go to Plano, for various reasons that we don't need to get into right now. While I'm waiting, I'm watching the Florida / Tennesse football game on TV and refreshing ESPN.com to read just how quickly SMU is getting hammered into the ground by OSU.

At that point I decide that the only thing that properly goes along with the destruction of my alma mater by Oklahomans is some popcorn. So at a commercial, I run into the kitchen, extract some microwave popcorn from way up on the top shelf, toss it into the microwave, slam the door, hit the POPCORN button and run back into the living room just as play begins again. I am the essence of conserved movement.

I hear my phone ring, so I run into the bedroom and have a 2 minute phone conversation. When I come out, I hear the microwave make the noise that indicates it is quite done, thank you, please remove this darn food from me. I run over to the kitchen and pull the popcorn bag from angry microwave.

Here, I notice there seems to be a lot of steam coming from the popcorn bag. Like a lot, a lot. But whatever, right? Popcorn = yum. I dig around, find a big bowl to put said popcorn in, when I realize that, hmm, you know what? that ain't steam. It's smoke. The popcorn inside the bag is on fire. And every time I shake the bag to cool it off, a little more oxygen gets in there to fuel the flames.

What anyone else would think: Oh no! Fire! Put it out!

What my brain thinks: Nooo! The popcorn is ruined! Maybe I can save part of it!

Luckily, my common sense kicked in at some point, so instead of trying to rescue the few remaining delicious kernels, I did what all rational people would do in this situation. Namely, I threw the bag into the sink and started smacking it with a spatula until it stopped smoking.

Huzzah, go me!

At this point, thinking all is fine, I turn on the little fan above the stove to suck the smoke away, spray a bunch of air freshener to mask the stench, and go back in my bedroom to check the score of the SMU game. Maybe 3 minutes later, I decide that one near-apartment-burning shouldn't really stop me from enjoying some high cholesterol goodness, so I go back into the kitchen to attempt the process one more time, this time vowing to watch the microwave the entire time for signs of improper popcorn management.

When I get to the kitchen, though, before I turn on the light, I realize that there is something glowing in there. Y'see, life lesson #1 that I should have taken from this experience: when something is on fire, it isn't enough to beat it into submission with a kitchen utensil, you should also douse it in water for several hours, lest it reignite and come after you again, only this time it's personal.

So, I whip out the spatula again and turn the water on in the sink this time and together we triumph over The Flaming Bag of Popcorn and Death. Once it is a large, soggy mess, I gather it all up, put it in a plastic bag and throw it out in the dumpster, figuring if it spontaneously combusts again, at least there all it will burn is trash and it will never get its revenge.

I then returned home and popped a second bag without incident, which I then devoured. Because nothing makes you work up an appetite like repeatedly hitting a flaming bag of popcorn with a spatula for 15 minutes.

And to think I totally could have been a chef.

You wish you were this cool

As we have covered previously, I have to work on the Truck of Malfunction at least once a week to repair the air conditioning, unless I feel like sweating off 18 pounds every time I get into the car. It's a pretty simple operation, but it does involve me opening the hood and attaching hoses and puncturing cans that could potentially explode in my face and kill me. This makes for a rather manly feeling that I don't get most of time, since I'm usually like a 12 year old girl who sings a lot of showtunes for the majority of my life.

But anyway.

So I'm working on the TOM this week. I hook up all the proper components, no one gets exploded, and then I have to do the waiting part, which is hanging around my car for 20 minutes while the coolant gets circulated. (Because it's a bad idea to leave a car idling by itself for half an hour, even if it is the TOM.) To pass the time this week, I've brought my latest book with me, a huge 700 page hardbound copy of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (which is completely awesome, by the way) to read in the increasingly cool TOM cab.

[Scene: The cab of the TOM. Jason is highly engrossed in his book.]

Jason: Ooh...

[He moves around to get more comfortable in the tiny car. He ends up with his leaning against the window, looking down at the book in his lap.]

Jason: Hmm

Guy Who Is Standing Right Outside Unbeknownst To Jason (GWISROUTJ): RAP-RAP-RAP [on the window] Hi!

Jason:AAHHH!

[At this point Jason freaks out, because he is easily startled, and throws the book into the air. He then realizes that if the book falls, it will probably bend and rip all the pages and they will get all dirty from the years of accumulated crap inside the TOM. Since he just bought this book 2 days ago and paid full market price, Jason decides he must catch this book. Thus, he starts flailing his arms around wildly, trying to grab the book in a non-vulnerable area, looking for all the world like he is fending off a swarm of bees, or perhaps engaging in a slap fight with a suddenly-animated book. Eventually he manages to get the book without any harm done. He carefully lays it on the seat next to him and then turns to the window. (By the by, it has totally been at least a full minute since GWISROUTJ did the knocking.]

Jason [rolls down window]: Uh...hey [Upstairs Neighbor Guy Jason Knows].

GWISROUTJ [looking somehow bemused and uncomfortable at the same time]: Hey. I was just going to do laundry, thought I'd say Hi. Sorry I scared you.

Jason [scoffs]: Oh no, that's okay you didn't scare me.

(What Jason intends for this to mean: Oh I totally meant to do that crazy dance with the book, that's how I always finish reading a passage and that is completely normal and obviously I'm not so easily scared by someone knocking at a window.)

(What Jason actually conveys: Hi, I've lost my damn mind, please walk away slowly, no sudden movements, and perhaps I'll let you live to see tomorrow.)

GWISROUTJ: Ah. Alright then. See you around. [runs away]

It is a beautiful day in my neighborhood, no?

Just Swell

Last Wednesday I woke up in my normal blind fog, rolled out of bed and onto the floor, reaching desperately to silence the alarm clock from hell that is not so much next to my bed as it is in the other room so I will actually have to get up. Damn my clever tricks on my morning self.

But anyway, it seems like a normal day, when I notice that my mouth feels weird. Like, umm, thick. Which is odd, y'know?

My tongue seems to have swelled during the night. Nothing too serious, just about 1.5 its normal size. I'm somewhat concerned, seeing as one's tongue does not change size on of its own accord without some reason, but I figure it will go away eventually. I continue on with my day.

By dinner, it has grown even more and it feels like my entire mouth is burned, like I just gulped down three cups of steaming hot coffee and rolled it around to retain the flavor. It freakin' hurts. But there's not really much I can do, besides wonder what on earth I could have possibly done to warrant such a reaction.

Thursday rolls around and now The Tongue (as I imagine it being called) is affecting my speech. For serious, it sounds like I'm talking around a mouthful of marbles. As the day progresses, in addition to talking like I recently received a sharp blow to the head, I keep biting The Tongue, as it is now too large to avoid my teeth, in their normal setting.

When I get home from work (which was hideous: "Goo-mooorr-niegh, hooo caa I hep yoou?" "Excuse me?" "Sigh.") to alleviate the pain from the burning sensation as well as all the bites I bust out some of that throat numbing medication on The Tongue, thinking any medicine is good medicine, right? Foolish Jason, if The Tongue goes numb, you won't know when you're biting it all the time. And your speech will be so slurred you'll sound drunk without even trying. By this point I am practically drooling and I feel as though my head has become incredibly large.

This is not my beautiful life.

By that night, though, the numbing had worn off and I made it through the night out without severe incident, unless you count Devon laughing at me every time I tried to speak. Which, you know, she does normally anyway, so yeah. And I managed to get some alcohol into my system, which numbed everything in a very nice way that didn't seem to increase the number of tongue bitings per minute. So rock. (And I got to see Sean do a perfect karaoke rendition of No Scrubs that will forever live on in my mind and in the hearts of the drunken cowgirls at the table next to us. Even the worst days have their high points.)

By Saturday the whole thing was over and the tongue was back to mere lowercase status. Why did such a weird thing happen to me? Allergic reaction? Dental issues? Voodoo curse from my arch-nemesis? I guess it'll just be a mystery for the ages.

Insane Insecurities Part 2

It's time again for Things in Popular Culture That Disturb Jason.

I've already gone over that Levi's commercial that freaks the bejesus out of me, (which, by the way, is on all the damn time nowadays) and how incredibly wrong and creepy it is. But it turns out that it's not just this commercial that disturbs me, but pretty much any commercial where inanimate things come to life to terrorize innocent consumers.

My cases on point are both Juicy Fruit commercials, probably both conceived by the same twisted, sadistic mind. The first is the one where the donkey pinata comes to life during some kid's birthday party and starts attacking some poor child because it wants the gum that she just beat out of it's body returned to it.

Seriously, that's all kinds of messed up. I mean, I'm a generally well-adjusted 22 year-old (okay, that's a lie, but follow along) and it truly disturbs me. I imagine any child who saw this would nurse a fear of pinatas well into adulthood. Not that I imagine it would be very debilitating (how many times does the subject of pinatas come up in everyday conversation?) but still - bad form, juicy Fruit, bad form.

Second, this other Gum Commercial From Hell, wherein these high school kids are learning CPR and the freakin' CPR dummy comes to life to get at this kid's gum, directly out of the guy's mouth! First of all, EWW! Second, What. The. Fuck? From his mouth? What kind of pervy CPR dummy is this?

(It completely cracks me up, though, that they put up a warning on the bottom of the screen: Never Do CPR While Chewing Gum. Well obviously, or the person/thing you're doing it on will try to mug you for it. Wasn't that the message you were trying to get across?)

Okay, granted I obviously have more issues with this than anyone else in the world, but how is this supposed to make you want to buy their gum? Our gum is so good, inanimate objects leap to sentience and will invade your mouth for a chance to make it their own! Hoo Boy! Sign me up!

What's next? A ventrioquist's dummy pulls a knife on his puppeteer to take the gum? Just go all the way and imply that objects are willing to kill you for the gum. That will definitely bring in the customers! (Aside: I am totally kidding, Juicy Fruit people. I will lose my mind if I see a commercial where a psychotic dummy comes to life. I'm already scarred forever by that episode of Buffy.)

At least at the end of this commercial, the CPR dummy crashes into a car and dies - we are sure that the menace has ended, so long as the children never eat gum again.

Jesus.

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The last thing I want to discuss that disturbs me is less emotional-scarring-for-life disturbing and more shocking-witness-to-a-train-wreck-can't-look-away disturbing. Namely, the Christina Aguilera cover of the 70's song Car Wash, which of late is on the radio all the damnable time. At first I was slightly pleased by the campy-throwback nature of the song. "La-la-la, Working at a Car Wash, Woo! We're having Fun!"

The more I hear it, the more I'm disturbed/fascinated by the sheer sincerity of Christina's devotion to this song. She believes in this car wash, and shows it by rocking out without a hint of sarcasm or irony. Missy Elliot could almost be forgiven, since everything she's ever done has this level of over-the-top-ness. But Christina, my dear, Lady Marmalade at least had the stripping, whorish aspect going for it. This whole Car Wash thing is just embarrassing. And cheesy in a not-at-all-good way.

Unless the music video is nothing more than a chance for Christina to stage a one-woman wet t-shirt contest. In that case, I say "Bravo Miss Aguilera, you never fail to find a way to appeal to your target demographic."

(PS - Dear Christina, I'm just giving you the business, you know that I love you. People say I dress trashy too. We have so much in common. We are beautiful, no matter what they say. We should totally do a duet sometime.

Love, Jason)

Sickly

Last night I got home from watching a movie around 12:00.

(Aside:
Dear Angelina Jolie,
You and your huge lips complete me. Your dedication to completely incongruous nudity in a serial killer movie is awesome. Call me.
Love,
Jason)

By 12:45 it became apparent that I was in the early stages of some sort of sickness. You know, when you can totally feel the onset of a virus settling down on your chest like a thick blanket of untimely death? You don't? Whatever. Focus people! So I felt sick and was not getting any sleep and I had to be up in under 6 hours. Thus I took some medicine, guaranteed to knock you into a coma.

As a result of scary serial killer movie and drugs, I had a dream that I was at the International Rooster convention (where people come to discuss their love of roosters, I suppose). I remember carrying a large ceramic rooster with me everywhere I went and this guy in a chicken suit was trying to kill me for it, because it had won a prize for Best Rooster. Somehow I escaped in my Truck of Malfunction, but it was raining and a bird crashed into my windshield (a rooster, naturally) and I ran off the road and the TOM flipped. At that point I woke up, as I fell off the bed.

Now it's 10:00 in the morning, I'm barely functioning at a semi-conscious level, and I can't get the image of that creepy chicken-suit-wearing killer from my dream out of my head.

This is going to be one of those days.

The Tricks of Shopping

It came to my attention late Monday night that I was completely without the essentials of food. Thus it was at 9:30 at night that I braved the wilderness of the West Village to forage for something to keep me alive for a few more days. Specifically, I needed: One (1) Gallon of Milk, One (1) Loaf of Bread, One (1) Jar of Pickles.

This would be the story of how I went out on a three item quest and ended up spending 30 dollars and returning with 9 lbs of ribs and no milk, but it is an intricate and complex story that I don't have the patience for.

Okay, nevermind, I've distilled the essence of it exactly: Jason has poor impulse control and buys everything in the store that looks tasty, but has no memory and forgets what he came for. The end.

As someone once said, it's very difficult to become a novelist when you're as good at getting to the point as I am.

I will, however, present a list of important things I learned on this adventure.
In no particular order:

• Don't mess with the Produce Lady, because she will totally cut you.
• If you get a cart with uneven wheels, exchange it immediately, or you may lose control of it at an inopportune time and crash into a huge display of tuna and make a whole bunch of noise and cause people to stare.
• When a girl gives you a look that one generally reserves for shockingly dressed whores, before you give her a piece of your mind check your clothing to see if she may have a point about the inappropriate nature of your clothes.
• And coming from above...Always check what you are wearing before you leave the house to make sure, a) there are no large holes in your shorts that reveal too much information about yourself and b) that the shirt you are wearing is not so small that when you reach for something on the top shelf you expose your entire torso.

(Jason's Painful Realization of the Night: "Dear God, I'm dressed like a
man-whore in Albertsons at 10:00 at night.")

(Jason's Second Thought: "Do they kick whores out of the store?" [girl walks by] "Oh, I guess not.")

• When you are in the checkout line (apparently dressed like a whore) and see someone from your badminton class last semester, hide behind the impulse items to avoid a very painful conversation that ends with the line "Well, it looks like you ended up doing okay for yourself."

(Jason's Internal Conversation: "Exactly how should I take that? As a
compliment, obviously. But I think he just assumed I was a prostitute. But a good one. Shut up.")

All these lessons brought to you as a Public Service Announcement. May you always have healthy, happy, and solicitation-free grocery runs.

Out the Window

This weekend, I went back to my parent's house, to visit the family and whatnot. It was nice and relaxing, which of course makes for a horrible entry. Luckily, we can count on the motorists of Texas to provide a little excitement to end the weekend on.

So I'm driving home, sans air conditioning as the Truck of Malfunction (TOM) requires a new bottle o' Freon every Sunday promptly at 2:00, lest the air become the same temperature as molten steel and it is currently 3:45. Thus, I am busting down the highway, windows open, radio cranked, and singing along to Wake Me Up Before You Go Go to distract myself from the fact that it is so hot that my hands have melted into the steering wheel and will require surgical removal.

There is a car in front of me, a little white Toyota of unknown origin. It does not register on my radar too much, until it starts swerving around a little. I am intrigued. Suddenly, it starts to shift over to the left hand lane. Good for him. However, midway through the process, out of the window flies

-- let's pause here a moment to reflect on this. What would you expect might fly out a car window? A paper bag? A piece of paper? Hah, no. You obviously have no concept of my luck --

out of the window flies a carton of McDonalds french fries. Red, greasy, and completely full. It is practically launched from the window, propelled with great force in an upwards direction. I'm sort of hypnotized by the parabolic descent of the fries (little twirling golden arches), and the general weirdness of seeing a big ol' thing of fries sailing through the air, until I realize they're totally gonna land on the TOM.

"This can't be good for the functioning of a Truck of Malfunction" is the only thought I have time for before the fries collide perfectly center with the grill of the TOM. It makes sort of a wet noise, surprisingly. For a second, I actively wonder if a fry might actually get sucked into the engine and cause my fiery death.

"That would suck so bad. And yet, it's just ironic enough for God to pull it on me. Man Killed By French Fries, the headline would read, and you just know it would be in one of those Humorous Notes section, with a little subline - and you thought they were just bad for your cholesterol."

Luckily enough, the carton fell off pretty quickly and I've yet to see any french fry related lag in performance from the TOM.

But man, is that weird or what? I'll always wonder now, what caused the owner of the white Toyota to throw the fries out the window? What kind of deranged person throws out a perfectly good bunch of McD's fries? Those things are awesome. And out a window, nonetheless. Insanity.

Mmm, now I'm hungry. I need something deep fried obviously. And not airborne.

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Complex of Death

So I was going to drop off some papers at my boss's apartment complex earlier this month. I'd never been there before and had no idea how to get there. The directions I had seemed pretty straight forward, though, so I drove over there not really worrying about anything.

My boss had told me to pull up to the gate just outside the complex and then call her and she would come open it with her magic button of opening that the apartment people had so kindly supplied her.

When I followed the directions, though, things seemed really weird. For one, the gate was sort of rusty and really set far back off the road. Plus, you couldn't see any apartments from the gate. It had a sort of creepy vibe, but I'm easily spooked, so I ignored the feeling and called the boss.

NOTE: Never ignore feelings of creepiness! There's a reason you have instincts.

She says she'll be right out. While I'm waiting, some guy in a beat-up suburban pulls up behind me and hits his magical gate opening device and waves me through.

"That was nice of him," I think.

Oh, foolish Jason.

So it becomes very apparent that this is not the place I'm looking for. There are only 3 or 4 really decrepit houses behind this gate, with a little dingy office set over to the side. There are no cars in the place besides the suburban, which quickly pulls into a garage and is never seen again. Realizing that I'm in the wrong and ever so disturbing place, I turn around to head out the gate. No such luck, you need a opener to get out the gate. Try the other side of the complex, same result.

"The hell?" I say to myself. So I'm trapped in a weird housing complex parking lot in the middle of Dallas, surrounded by really tall hedges and gates that don't open. I go to call my boss again, only to see that my phone isn't working anymore. And because it's that sort of day, I look down and see that I'm almost out of gas. It's like I fell right into the middle of a bad Steven King short story.

It's been about 10 minutes now. The office is completely empty and looks abandoned, for serious, and I haven't seen a single person since crazy man in the suburban who is no doubt warming up the chainsaw right now, as I sit contemplating my doom. And my air conditioning is still broke, so I'm sweating like nothing else.

"Why me?" I think to myself. "I'm too young to die in a slasher movie." And then I realize I am exactly the right age to die in a slasher movie, and that just makes me sadder.

20 minutes in, I'm about to give in to fate and go knock on some doors, where no doubt no one will answer except for the last one, and the door will mysteriously creak open while I'm knocking, and it'll be really dark inside, but then I'll wander inside anyway, and as I'm looking around, the door will slam shut and lock, leaving me in a dark and strange house with a bunch of scary portraits and taxidermy animals, where a madman no doubt lurks, sharpening his collection of knives and laughing at odd times where I can hear him, but can't see him and OH MY GOD, WHAT'S THAT ON THE STAIRS???---

But then a woman in a nice BMW pulls out of garage #2 and lets me out of the back gate.

And that's when I realize that I watch way too many movies. And that the imagination is a dangerous tool. Especially my imagination, because I've lost my damn mind.

Knees, Pirates and Cookies

Yesterday afternoon, I was in the office. I quickly turned away from the copier to answer the phone at one point, and promptly tripped over something (likely culprits: the ground and/or my own two feet) and slammed my knee into the file cabinet corner. I'm pretty sure the entire floor heard my following obscenity. Now there's no way I'm getting invited to any company Christmas parties.

I walk with an odd gait now, sort of how I imagine a pirate with a wooden leg would walk, if he were in an office setting. I refrain from saying Arrrr, however, since it's just a bruise, and I imagine a pirate in an office would have a little more decorum than that.

Anyway, results of my clumsiness:

• I couldn't continue my 'Death by Jump Rope" routine yesterday, so that will definitely push back the 10 minute goal by another 14 years.
• When I got excited during The Amazing Race last night and jumped off the couch, I immediately collapsed into a writhing heap o' pain. A heap that was still yelling "Run, fool, run!" but a heap nonetheless.
• Today, my knee is a lovely shade of purple-ish red that somehow perfectly complements the color of my shirt. Even in pain, am excellent at outfit coordination.

In other, less painful news, I was still able to cook last night and made some awesome chocolate chip/walnut cookies that only set the fire alarm off once. Between those and my amazing guacamole skilz from this past weekend, I'm well on my way to becoming a master cooking guy and appearing on that Iron Chef show. You'll be able to recognize me by the pronounced limp and pirate-like demeanor.

Laundry Makes Jason Cry

You have to understand, I am not as ridiculous as I seem. The way it reads on paper is that I can barely function in the outside world without falling down or horribly embarrassing myself every 2 minutes. I'll have you know, I'm totally normal, things just seem larger on the internet.

That being said, I made a complete fool of myself on Sunday, in an order of magnitude that I don't usually face. So much so that I'm still sort of embarrassed about the whole situation, which is why it has taken 3 whole days to get out.

So Sundays rule. I just hang about, reading the paper, playing video games, and cooking up a minor storm. It's lots of fun and usually by the end of the day, I've gotten everything in the house clean, so's I can let the filth just pile up throughout the rest of the week.

One of the important tasks of most Sundays is laundry. Dear God. Let us begin.

[Scene 1 :Jason's apartment. Jason has finished cooking and has decided to do the laundry. He finds the laundry basket]
Jason: Okay, let's gather up all the laundry, shall we? Most definitely. [gathering] Wow, I do have a lot of socks don't I? For serious.

--A quick note: now that I live alone, I tend to have long and rambling conversations with myself as I go about my daily business. For the sake of realism, I'm including them in the scene, even though it makes me look like a complete wack-job. That is all.--

Jason [has gathered all the available clothes off the floor]: Hmm, is that everything? Laundry, detergent, quarters, keys. Yep, you're good to go.

[Ominous music plays in the background, for Jason has forgotten to change into his laundry day attire (namely his pajama bottoms). He leaves the house in normal Sunday attire. Dun dun dunnnn.]

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

[Scene 2: Laundry room. Jason has appropriately placed all the colors in one machine, all the whites in another.]
Jason: Sweet, everything's ready to go. No wait! I'm still wearing the shorts I was cooking in earlier. I needed to wash these! Crap. I guess I'd better go change out of them and come back. Or maybe. . . [here Jason hatches what is most definitely the stupidest idea in the history of time and space. Anything that was ever used as a plot point in MTV's Undressed undoubtedly qualifies, as you will soon see]. . .maybe I can just grab my other pajama bottoms out of the washer here and just change right now. I mean, no one would see me and it would save me a precious 55 seconds of my life, walking there and back. I'm such a genius.

[Jason finds the pajamas in the washing machine then begins the quick change. Because it is Jason, as soon as he is halfway through the process (namely, in his underwear pulling out the pajamas) the Nice Girl from building #2 walks into the room. ]
Jason's Mind: OH SHIT!
Nice Girl [eyes wide, tries not to laugh]: Hi there.
Jason[turns entirely red]: Uhh, hi.
Nice Girl: So, definitely needed to laundry then? Really out of clothes? [Is sort of failing at the whole 'not laughing' thing]
Jason's Mind: Which option is worse, going to do the laundry in your underwear, or changing clothes in the laundry room? Is one of those really worse than the other? . . . How the hell do I end up in these situations? Crap, probably should have said something by now, or done anything besides just stand in the middle of the laundry room half naked. Is it too late to hide behind the washers until she leaves. Probably. Crap.
Jason [deciding that honesty is the best policy, especially since saying that he came to the laundry room in his underwear would mean walking out in public in his underwear]: Uhh, no, see I was cooking, right? And then I spilled avocados on my shorts? Not that avocados are liquid, I mean I had cut them up? And then they fell on my shorts? So I had to wash them? But I forgot to change? And then I had this idea?. . . [you get the idea. This continues on for quite sometime, as Jason is incapable of stopping the stream of babble coming from his mouth when he's this embarrassed and Nice Girl seems far too amused to try and stop him.]

Finally, blessedly, I managed to put on some pants, turn on the washers, say goodbye to obviously traumatized Nice Girl, and run the hell away from the laundry room and curl up in a little ball under my desk, never to see the light of day again. I'm pretty sure it'll only be a couple of days before I'm evicted for being Crazy Indecent Exposure Laundry Guy, but we shall see.

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Jump

I'm pretty much your quintessential bookish nerd. I read constantly. I got a degree in Computer Science. As an outgrowth of that degree I'm preternaturally pale and incredibly sensitive to natural light. I sneeze horribly whenever I walk outside, away from the precious glow of a computer screen. Hell, I even play the clarinet.

So, in general, I'm content to let others be physical; I'll stick to more mental tasks. This seems to be a very good idea, since I'm also incredibly clumsy (see: every thing I've ever done in my entire life).

In something of a contradiction, I lift weights all the time. This summer, the gym was my second, really smelly home. Not to say that my first home was really smelly.

I think my apartment smells nice.

I'm saying the gym was smelly.

. . .

Glad to have cleared that up.

Where was I? Right, so I lift, like, a lot.

By the end of last week, I was up to 156 pounds. That means I gained 16 pounds of muscle since May. I now weigh more than I ever have in my entire life. I am pretty excited about the whole thing, but I was thinking there would be more practical application to all this extra muscle. Because despite the fact that I can bench-press 190 pounds, I still get winded carrying my groceries from the truck to my apartment. And I live on the first floor. That's just sort of sad. And by "sort of sad", I mean "incredibly and pathetically sad."

Thus, it was decided that my next phase of exercise would be more cardiovascular in nature, so I don't drop dead trying to carry a dozen eggs 25 feet.

After careful consideration (which consisted of asking my friend Sean what he was doing to get in shape and then blatantly copying him) I took up jumping rope as the new, most efficient way to kill myself--wait, "to get some healthy exercise."

No ne'ermind, I was right the first time.

You may have forgotten this, (because the last time you jumped rope was in elementary school (and don't try to pretend otherwise, no one over the age of 11 jumps rope unless s/he plans on a career of boxing or PE teacher)) but jumping rope is fricking hard.

Not that understood this at the start. I was all "Well, I should start out easy, I'll only jump for 10 minutes."

[Scene: Jason's apartment, in his ginormous living room. He clears out an area big enough to jump in. After carefully ensuring that every damn window is completely blinded and the doors securely locked, he grabs his new jump rope.]

Jason: Alright, Jason, you can do this, no one's watching, even if you make a fool of yourself, no one will know. [begins to jump]
[30 seconds later]

Jason: Huff...Puff...Dang, this is hard. [continues jumping]
[Almost 2 minutes total elapsed time]

Jason: Wheeze...gasp...dear God.

[The jump rope catches on his leg, tangles up, Jason takes two hops forward and collapses into a heap on the ground, narrowly missing the television stand]

Jason [comes to, panting]: Very smooth. [checks the clock] Either I just passed out for exactly 24 hours, or I almost died from less than 2 minutes of rope jumping. [thinks] I'll just let this be one of life's eternal mysteries.

In other words, Jason continues to be foiled by even the simplest tasks in the world.

But I will not be deterred! I have continued to jump every day for the last three and am proud to report that I no longer fall over dead after 2 minutes. I still can't go past 2 minutes, but at least I don't require life support any more. At this rate, I calculate I will reach 10 minutes of continual jumping in roughly October 2009.

Sweet, no?

Don't Look at Me

When driving, I tend to believe that I am insulated from the rest of the world -- I'm alone in the one thing in this world that I own free and clear. It's just me and the Truck of Malfunction (heretofor known as the TOM). It never really dawns on me that just because I'm in the car by myself, that doesn't mean other people can't see me.

Usually, this is not a horrible problem. Yeah, I may sing along to the radio and do little dances on occassion (that occassion being All the Damn Time) but whatever. I mean, how do people know that I'm not just talking on one of those hands-free phones or maybe a spider just crawled down my shirt and I'm dislodging it -- whateva, all you people judging me for dancing in my car, you don't even KNOW ME!
...
...
Ahem. I seem to have fallen off track here. Point being, I may seem a little weird at time whilst driving, but it ain't no thing. Usually.

So the air conditioning system in the TOM has, you guessed it, malfunctioned and only spews incredibly hot air these days. Living in Dallas, this is a very bad thing since the weather in the summer on a mild day can be nicely referred to as Scorchingly, Brain-numbingly, Freaktastically Hot. The only way I survive trips in the TOM is to open both windows and let the blistering wind of downtown pollutants waft around my body to dissipate some of the heat that is slowly melting me.

This is all careful buildup to this last Monday...

Oh wait, before we get to the story proper, we have to go over one other fact that I generally take for granted that you, my constant and ever so attractive readers, know -- namely, I am a huge dork. HUGE. I tell you this now to lessen the blow that is soon to come when I explain exactly how big of a dork I actually am in practice.

So last Monday I'm driving home from work around 5:30-ish right in the middle of Dallas rush hour traffic from hell. It's ugly, as usual, and the fumes of the highway are even greater than normal and we seem to be completely stationary in traffic. I try to take my mind off of the situation at hand by flipping through the radio to find something pleasant to listen to. I happen up Britney Spears' Toxic, a lovely song of which I am a great fan.

Now, I may have sung along with this song, in beautiiful falsetto. And I may have done a few impromptu dance moves in the limited confines of the TOM, including some excellent judo chops and head bobs. I really don't recall, my memory, she is not that great, especially about such situations. All I know is that I enjoyed the song to it's fullest.

Following that song there was some horrible song of pain which I could not stand, so I switched over to the classical music station to cleanse my palate. They were playing a particularly excellent version of Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody On A Theme By Paganini and once again, I may have gotten into the music a bit. I may have hummed along, or sang with some of the more exciting parts. I may have conducted the music with a little imaginary baton and banged on the steering wheel in time with the music. And I may have done all these things simultaneously while rocking-out like some teenager at a Limp Bizkit concert. I just don't recall, it's all such a blur.

I do know, however, that near the end of the song, I happened to look out my driver's side window and realized that the people in the car next to me were staring at me. Not just staring - I mean mouths-hanging-open-sheer-horrified-train-wreck-can't-look-away staring at me.

It is at this point that I realize that my windows are open and that my usual antics may be more publically available than the norm. And since the staring guys in the next car over had their window open, I well imagine they've been privy to most all of said antics, seeing as we haven't moved in about 8 minutes.

I quickly go over my options and decide that it's really time to cut my losses and run, so I stop the singing and dancing, slump down in my seat, and burn in shame while praying for God to either get traffic moving or to smite me from the earth.

God chose to move traffic and I learned a valuable lesson about not being a dork when you have the windows rolled down. But really, I should have known better: Britney Spears and Classical Music? With my luck, it's like tempting the Gods.

Trouble w/Haircuts

I'm not sure what it is about me, but I am incapable of getting a normal stylist when I get my haircut. Ever since my Awesome arcading Woman of the Deadly Scissors left Dallas 3 years ago, I've been going to different people at different places all over the city in search of the perfect stylist. At this point, I'm now just looking for someone who can be described as 'possibly competent'.

To illustrate, let us consider the last 4 haircuts I've received, in the last 5 months.

1. I head home for a weekend, decide to try out the Marshall, Texas cosmotology scene via Down Home Hair Fashions or some other, equally bucolic sounding salon type place. I am seated immediately by one of the largest women I have ever encountered in my life. She proceeds to begin to cut my hair without slowing her conversation with the woman across the salon. Their conversation? Practicing their lines for a play they're in. The play? Salome. In Marshall. Texas. Dear God. Ignoring first the butchering these women are doing to a great play with line readings that could kill small birds, I spend the rest of a half hour in pure terror, as every time the hairdresser can't think of the right word, she pauses her clipping mid-stroke and waves the scissors/clippers/razor about my head in a frustrated manner. I escaped with only 2 bandages and a renewed appreciation for Oscar Wilde.
2. Back in Dallas this time, I go to a local chain of salons, thinking institutionalize might serve me well. I'm actually doing okay until the third time she puts the clippers to the back of my neck and pauses halfway up my head. She shrieks "I love this song!" swings the clippers from my head to her mouth and, miming a microphone, proceeds to complete the entire song playing on the radio, with dance moves natch, while occasionally taking swipes at my head. I came out of this learning nothing except Jessica Simpson's irresistible is a very dangerous song.
3. In a big hurry before my latest job interview, I head over to the same place as last time, vowing to not get the same chantries as last time. Instead, I get a woman who has a graduate level degree in Computer Science and knows more about programming than I ever will. She's incredibly interesting to talk to. Meanwhile, she cut's my hair using her '4 quadrants method' which is so complicated that the explanation is akin to a geometry lesson and leaves me looking like I did it myself in a dark closet with a steak knife. Lesson: never let a Computer Scientist cut your hair.
4. Today, I find a new place, and a new woman. She is soooo cute and friendly. I am tentatively hopeful, until 2 minutes into the haircut when she asks me, quite innocently, "Have you ever had a Red Bull?" This sends a few warning signals to my brain, but I soldier on, "Uhh, no." "Well I just drank my first one, 'cause I was sleepy. Now I'm not sleepy, but I can't stop shaking," she says as razors off the hair around my ear. Oh that's comforting is all that is running through my head. Because now that she's said something, oh my God you can totally see her arm shaking in the mirror! Dude! Lesson this time? Hell if I know, I guess it's "always ask your hairdresser if they're shaking uncontrollably before submitting to their ministrations."

I think sometime in a past life I didn't tip someone who cut my hair, or I killed a hairdresser over a bad perm or something, and now they're haunting me from beyond the grave.

That, or I overreact to everything and these people are perfectly good at their jobs.

Yeah, right, I'm totally cursed.

Friday Morning Haze

On the way into work today, I laughed at one of those morning radio "personality" shows. And God help me, it was not the first time this week. It's a sickness, I tell you. It's how work gets to you: you start getting up earlier, going to bed earlier, thinking about salary, and before you know it, you've got a house, a mortgage, lower back pain and you laugh at morning radio talk shows. Damn you, adult life! Additionally this morning, I received in my email the following message:

THIS IS GOD
TODAY I AM GOING TO DEAL WITH ALL OF YOUR PROBLEMS --I WILL NOT BE NEEDING YOUR HELP!!!!

This worries me to no end. First of all, when did God get my email address? Second, the way it's worded, it looks like God is pissed off that I was apparently trying to help deal with my own problems. Well excuse me, Email God, sorry to be so proactive, I'll try to do less today. And third, why does God feel the need to talk in ALL CAPS? I'm not deaf, God of the Electronic Mail System. (Although I guess if someone is allowed to speak in all caps, it is God.)

Geez, I definitely need some more coffee.

My Life in One Word: Sedentary

So this weekend I was supposed to go to Austin for a fun-filled three days of debauchery and whatnot amidst the burnt orange. Instead, my wisdom teeth got all inflamed on Friday and I opted to stay home and lie on my couch bemoaning my fate.

And while I was bemoaning, I watched a bunch of movies. A quick recap of all that went down.

LotR : Return of the King - Wow, so the ending of this movie is even gayer than I remembered. Which is saying a whole lot, because I remembered it being insanely gay. Not that the movie doesn't kick 14 kinds of ass, because it does. But damn, really, really, very gay.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets - Okay, so these child actors cannot act at all. Some of those line readings physically hurt my brain more than my teeth. Still, not a bad movie, although the ending completely bugs me. Probably because I hate that Hagrid fellow with a passion. Stop applauding, you fools. He's incompetent. Oh well. The snake was pretty cool.

Center Stage - Okay, how much do I love this movie? Yeah, the dancing actors give worse line readings than those kids in Harry Potter. And the ending is the ludicrous and defies the laws of time and space. And they cast Peter Gallagher as a former great ballet dancer. But come on! Dance. What. You. Feel. So much over the top fun.

By late Saturday night, the pain in my teeth had subsided, so I went out to see a movie, you know, just to mix it up a little.

A Home at the End of the World - Man, I just don't know. The first third of the movie was so freaking awesome. (Highlighted by the fact that 15 minutes in two old couples bolted from the theatre, realizing that this movie contained *gasp* godless sodomites! Way to read the synopsis before you got in the theatre. Not.) The rest of the movie was still very good, but weird and sort of depressing. It made me sad in a way that a movie hasn't in a long time. Which says something good about it, I suppose. Plus it has some really funny lines and the story is all sorts of complex and interesting. I wish they had explained Sissy Spacek's character more, since she sort of got lost in the end.

Oh, and shut up Vulnerable and Sexy Colin Farrell. I have a very well defined hate-filled image of you and I don't need you screwing it up by playing wounded, sweet, hot guys in independent films. (This also applies equally to Subdued and Cute Jim Carrey in Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind.) But if you want to make out, I guess I can make an exception.

Right, the movie.

So yeah, good but indescribably sad-making. (Especially at the end, when he actually makes a decision, and I was all "good for him, he finally did something for himself" and then I thought about it and realized that he didn't do it for himself, it was just more of the same, and then man was I depressed all over again.)

Aaaaanyways.

That was my weekend. Today I played video games and beat that stupid Mario game which has been haunting me for the past couple of weeks, read the paper, and plan on watching more TV as the day goes on. Damn if my life ain't as full as they come.

Banner Test

Christmas Banner

Christmas banner. In one of these pictures I'm a wee bit drunk. Can you guess which one?

Picture testing 2

Picture testing. Is that not a most awesome hat? 

Night, Lights, Georgia, Whatever.

So driving in to work today, an experience that brings me to a murderous rage faster than any other except perhaps Carrot Top commercials, I happened upon something that both soothed and confounded me.

Namely, the oldies radio station playing "The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia."  I've never really paid a lot of attention to this song, but I must admit that it is in my top 5 of Songs About a Vengeful Sister Who Allows Her Brother to Take the Fall for A Killing She Committed. 

Seriously, what on earth is this song about?

"Well, they hung my brother before I could say [that I killed that dude who was screwing my brother's wife]"?

Umm, exactly how did this happen before you could say anything? Too busy to go to the hangin'? Or the 'make-believe trial' for that matter?

Really, how is she blaming "the Judge in the town [who has] bloodstains on his hands"?  Methinks she should be looking more towards the crazy woman in the mirror, who's wielding the gun. I'm just sayin'. 

And then she killed the wife, too?  What is she, the morality police? Is she gonna go after the bartender who also admitted to sleeping with the wife, next?  This woman is obviously unbalanced.

To recap, she kills 2 people, allows another to die for it, then she blames the lawyers and the judge after-the-fact, and THEN she goes on to write a hit single about her misdeeds so she can be all rich and whatnot.

I don't like this woman one bit. Way to kill a bunch of people for a record contract, yo.  You'd think she was one of those rappers from the 90's.

(Now you see what going to work everyday does to my mind. I just spent 15 minutes dissecting a 31 year-old country-western song. Kill me now.)

Revealing Insane Insecurites in the First Post

So is anyone else completely freaked out by that Levis commercial where the mannequin follows the guy home because the guy took the jeans that it was wearing? Because seriously, that 45 second segment is the scariest thing I've seen on film in months.

First, they gotta play that "I put a spell on you" song, something I already find vaguely creepy anyways.

Then the slow stalking through the rain.

And when that shadow falls over the guy while he's sleeping? And then the door opens? I'm totally gonna have nightmares for days.

Way to ruin my life, Levis.

Speech Therapy

As anyone who has talked to me for any period of time knows, I have something of an issue with speaking. Namely, that I don’t do it very well. In fact, I’m pretty darn horrible at transferring information via language. I tend to under-enunciate everything, whilst talking incredibly fast. Add to that a mild stutter that I develop whenever I get nervous or hyper, and it’s fair game as to whether anyone will be able to understand a single word out of my mouth on a given day.

I’ve made strides to correct this. When I think about it, I try to slow my speech down and avoid alliterative words that cause the stutter. Lately, I’ve even been working on the enunciation thing, so people can actually hear me from a distance greater than 0.32 feet away.

Sadly, these preventative steps do nothing for me when they are most needed. Because all these speaking issues really only come out in their full, painful glory when I’m very stressed out or nervous. And I ain’t got the time or composure to remember to slow my speech down when I’m tweaked out by the world at large.

So when my new job started to get me a little tense, man were we all in for a good time. But we’ll get to that in good time.

Because, oh yeah.

So there’s one other thing about my speech issues that I forgot to mention. And by “forgot” I mean “avoided talking about like one avoids the black plague, because it makes me look completely batshit insane.”

Sometimes, when I’m hyper or nervous (or just being myself in general) I talk very fast (as we’ve covered). The problem is that when I do this, occasionally I think to myself “Self, did what you just say make any sense?” And when I do, I have a little internal dialogue, wherein I repeat what I just said very quickly, to myself, in my head.

That’s normal, right?

Whatever, shut up, I’ve got miles to go here.

See, the problem is that when I do this, I sort of have the habit of silently but physically mouthing the words as I’m repeating them to myself. This is bad, you see, because this repetition happens to seamlessly follow the quick talking that I just did.

If you can imagine this, you would hear me say something unintelligible and incredibly fast, but sadly my lips would continue to move silently afterwards for some time. This gives me the effect of being the only human being in the entire world who is, in person, a badly dubbed Japanese film.

Sigh.

Let’s all pause for a moment to digest this little nugget of information before we move on.

Okay, so yeah. To recap: I’m a horrible speaker, especially in tense situations.

[Scene: It’s the first full week of Jason’s new job, 4:35pm. Jason is at his desk, writing three emails, sending out 2 faxes, and trying to make 3 calls (while learning how the new phone system works), all before 5:00pm. To put it mildly, Jason is tense.]

Jason [talking incredibly fast]: Hi, thanks for holding. So have you found those papers yet? [silently repeats to himself]

[In walks Jason’s boss]

Boss: Hey Jason, where are those papers at?!

Jason [on the phone, talking a bit, but not much, slower]: I’m sorry, I said ‘have you found those papers yet?’ [does the repeating thing]

Boss [misinterpreting the mouthing]: What was that Jason? I’m bad at reading lips.

[Jason cocks his head quizzically, completely oblivious to the fact that he has indeed become Reporter #3 from Godzilla Vs. Mothra]

Jason [still talking way too fast]: Oh good, well if you can fax them over here that’dbegreatthanks. [again with the mouthing]

Boss [confused]: What are you doing?

Jason [hangs up]: Hmm, I’m not doinganything, am I? [sigh. Does it again.]

Boss: There! What was that!

Jason [dawning comprehension, as this is not the first time his brain has betrayed him]: Oh! Umm….nothing. Really, just a habit….it’s nothing, really, I promise…[wanders off into unintelligible mutterings as he realizes this is helping nothing. Not that the muttering did him any favors.]

Boss [now believes Jason has truly gone batshit crazy]: Oohh-kay. Do you have those papers?

[Jason hands them over.]

Boss: Thanks.

[She slowly backs out of his office, apparently afraid to turn her back to the obviously insane new secretary she’s hired.]

[Jason dies]

Training Day

As you may or may not know, I finally found a job. Yes, all that studying in high school and university, those all-nighters and 40 page research papers, all that networking and those countless hours honing my keen interview skills lo these many years has finally paid off. In the form of a secretarial job.

From part-time carnie to full-time secretary. You’ve come a long way, baby.

…

…

…

So score.

Right?

Not so fast.

For you see, I have neglected to mention the little fact that I am a frickin’ horrible secretary. On my first day of training, trying to work through the Byzantine phone system in the office, I managed to disconnect no less than 8 callers. Considering I only had 10 calls the entire day, we’ll take that as a loss, I suppose.

I also managed to almost destroy the office server, as well as take out the entire building switchboard, when I tripped going into the computer room and ran headlong into the fuse array.

Add to that the part where I almost got towed in the parking garage and was then rear-ended while leaving said garage, I’d call it a pretty complete day.

Oh, but just wait.

So after work I had to go return some pants that I had bought for work the previous day. (For some reason I find that while I’m okay with the first three pairs of 30X30’s, the fourth pair is a bit tough to manage at 36X30. A bit wide in the hips, perhaps.) I head over to the mall where I bought them, battling traffic and just a bit pissed off with the world, considering my day thus far. Particularly with drivers in Dallas (see: rear-ending above) but also not pleased with the world in general.

Anyway, I get to the store and make my exchange very quickly, the sales lady is awesome about the whole thing. I’m suddenly feeling better. That’s short-lived. As I’m making my way out of the store, I have to travel through the makeup area to get into the mall.

[Scene: The Makeup Counter. Apparently it’s a bad time, there are boxes everywhere. Jason clumsily picks his way across the room. Unfortunately, he manages to choose the same path as a little old lady who is coming in the opposite direction.]

Jason: Sorry, ma’am. I’ll back up. [he carefully backtracks through the boxes, almost but not quite falling several times]

Jason [steps aside but still in secretary mode]: Have a nice day!

[The woman, this sweet-looking little grandmotherly type, looks over with a scowl. She flips Jason off and then shuffles on, leaving him standing there shocked.]

Now at this moment, I must confess I did entertain some unhealthy thoughts. Mostly centered around tripping. field tackling, or throwing something at this crazy woman. Somehow, I’m still not sure on the details, I suppressed these urges and made it back home without killing a single soul. Except perhaps my own.

Thus I survived Training Day One, but just barely. Only 15 more of those, followed by another 365 regular days left.

I’ve come a long way indeed.

I miss the carnival.

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.