Wait, What Time is It?

Do you realize that it is almost September? What the hell happened to this year? The lease on my apartment ends in under 2 months. It seriously feels like maybe 45 days ago that I signed that 11 month lease extension. And now it's about to expire. Which means I've been at my soul-sucking job for well over a year now. Whatever happened to those good old days of carnivals and guarding fashion shows?

Man, perspective is weird.

Anyways.

So I went looking for apartments on Saturday, and learned that a) you should always call ahead for an appointment, b) Dallas is freaking expensive, and c) fucking hot. That trip, along with my 4 phone calls today, has basically cemented the fact that I'll be renewing my lease on my current place. Screw moving, when this place is practically paying me to stay.

I mean, on some level I've always assumed that this place would be the death of me. But the price for this place is 247 dollars a month less than the next cheapest place. And that place is in an even more ghetto-y area than this one. With 120 less square footage. And on the third floor. I mean, stairs? Are you kidding me?

The final decision will come tomorrow, after my job review to make sure I'm in a place of continued employment for another year. 'Cause if I'm not, I'm totally bolting in the middle of the night to Kentucky, to start my new life under an assumed name on Jim's couch. But more than likely, my job is secure and I'll be picking up another year of soul-sucking work and carefully updating my apartment in the most tacky ways possible. (Next up: matching tacky furniture!)

God, this is boring. You know what my next big thing to talk about is about to be? I'm going to the optometrist later on this week once my appointment is finalized. I'll finally have my contacts again. Finally, I will be free of the geek. Except, where I still am one, just without glasses. Sigh. This is the lamest entry in the history of the world. When did I become so boring? Oh right. I remember. Never mind.

Seriously, I have nothing, this is just depressing. Can I seriously not have done anything embarrassing in the last 4 days? I almost yelled at a small child on Friday for mocking me, but I totally deserved it, so I can't really complain. Geez. I should just stop typing, but I really don't want to give up.

Umm, I managed to get through my Best Buy trip without making any overtly ridiculous purchases, getting Sin City, my legal copy of the new Nickel Creek CD (which, yeah, is awesome), and the latest season of Will & Grace on DVD. Each one on extreme sale, so it was easy to rationalize. Frank kept me honest and away from the digital cameras, which I now want more than anything else in the world, now that I've borrowed his and realized how much fun a real camera is. I don't pretend to know what I would photograph, but I really want to have the power available at all times.

Okay, fine, I'll stop, this is just getting depressing. Like when you're fishing and you catch one, and then it's in the boat with you, all flopping around and judging you with his beady little eye, all "well, I hope you're pleased with yourself" and it just won't stop moving and you feel bad but just can't look away and you want to just give up and throw it back, but then what was the point of going fishing if you don't have anything left at the end to eat and you can hear the fish in your mind going "And you couldn't go to, say, Wendy's? No, you needed to get your food out of a lake. Well aren't you special? Big man, huh?" and it's even worse, but you aren't about to let that fish shame you, I mean, you caught him, how's he gonna be acting all superior and oh dear lord, quit anthropomorphizing the fish, you have to eat it later.

Or maybe that's just me. I just can't get behind the concept, so maybe the fishing metaphor is only apt in my mind. Crap. Just stop typing, you're only making it worse.

Okay, now. I'm done. Seriously. Totally stopping. Right.....now.

Bye.

Hot Prospects

I love the fall TV season. Football finally starts up in earnest, giving me a reason to actually get up on Saturday before 2:00 and Sunday before 12:00, all the old shows come back and try to wrap up the shocking cliffhangers left in the wake of May, and a whole crop of new crap shows sprout up, giving me the chance to waste even more time on TV that probably sucks. Whee!

Today, we will exhaustively discuss new TV, because I haven't really gotten into the football stuff yet, old TV is boring even to me, and I have a lot of free time to kill.

New stuff that I will probably watch:

• Kitchen Confidential - for no good reason other than it's sandwiched between two other shows that I'm already going to watch (Arrested Development and Prison Break), it's on Monday nights so it's not like I'll have anything else going on, and it gets all these insanely polarizing reviews that either love it or call it the worst show of the new year. Plus: Xander! And that guy from Alias that I love!
• Prison Break - the guy goes to prison on purpose! To break his brother out! And there are blueprints. You know, now that I write that out, it looks horrible. This is totally going to be one of those shows that I watch two episodes of and then never ever come back. Plus: the guys? Not so hot.
• My Name is Earl - this actually looks potentially funny despite everything going against it. I've never really gotten the whole Jason Lee thing, but I recognize the humor, and the previews work very well. That said, it gets one week to catch my interest enough, because it's on against The Amazing Race, and nothing beats TAR. I literally haven't missed an episode in 3 seasons. Which is absolutely insane bordering on fanatic. But I want to like this show, so it goes in the good pile. Plus: Have you seen that guy mace himself on the preview? Injuring yourself automatically = funny.
• Invasion - will see it at least for a while, it's on right after Lost. There are about 14 too many supernatural shows on this slate thanks to Lost, but I'm not necessarily complaining, as I tend to like these sorts of things. Plus: someone "unknowingly begins a fight for the survival of his family, his community, and what might ultimately be the whole human race." That's some hot PR, right there.
• Night Stalker - Hot Stuart Townsend and Even Hotter Gabrielle Union with that Hot nerdy kid from Not Another Teen Movie get together to fight even more supernatural forces? Sign me up RIGHT NOW. Plus: Bring it on? Oh, it's already been broughten.
• Reunion - Oh goddamn you Fox. Gotta be putting up what looks like the coolest new show up against my Night Stalkers? Look how hot they are! You just gotta be all up in my business. Guess what? I will buy a damn VCR. How about that Fox? Yeah, that's right! In your imaginary face! Plus: That really cute Sean Faris is in it, who's ABC show got cancelled last year and I felt really bad for him.

New Stuff that I want to Watch for the Sheer Ridiculous Factor:

• Surface - Go look at that picture they're using as the face of this show and then come back and try to tell me how this couldn't be so awesomely bad that you have to tell your friends about it. Plus: "Ever wonder what life would be like if a new form of sea life began to appear in locales all over the Earth?" Um, no, actually. Thanks for asking, though, really.
• Commander-in-Chief - let's just get this out of the way: I love Geena Davis. The Long Kiss Goodnight could be the only thing she's ever done and it would be enough. Throw in the whole MENSA / archery / cool interviews / whatnot and she can do nothing wrong in my eyes. But, seriously, this looks like hot ass in a can. I'm sorry. Who knows, maybe it'll be awesome. Doubtful. Plus: Donald Sutherland. Two real actors in one bad new series. Is that really fair?
• Head Cases - Yes, this looks absolutely horrible. Yes, it stars Chris O'Donnell in the 1345673rd lawyer show in the last 2 years. Yes, it has that really annoying guy who I hate who was in Saving Private Ryan and was the psycho replacement roommate for Joey on Friends. But you know what else it has? Rachel Leigh Cook, who I will watch in everything ever made. Some obsessions never die. Do you remember when she did that anti-drug commercial where she beat up that kitchen with a frying pan? Good times. Plus: oh, honey, there's no plus. This is going to suck. Hard. It's also up against Lost, so it's probably only getting one week from me.

New Stuff that It Actually Hurts to Look At:

• Bones - Guess what? The world no longer needs bloated David Boreanaz. Especially as "a former Army sniper who mistrusts science and scientists when it comes to solving crimes." Yeah, 'cause science is stupid and never helped solve anything. I'll go ahead and get this out of the way right now - Shut up, David Boreanaz.
• Freddie - You know what the world is clamoring for? A television series based around the life and times of Freddie Prinze Jr. Starring himself, and that poor Brian Austin Green from 90210. Only the world isn't, and goddamn does this look bad.
• The Ghost Whisperer - Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. No. Seriously. This is one of those joke items, right. Like a Fametracker send up of shows that could never happen because they're just so ludicrous. Hahahahahaha. Oh, Jesus-tapdancing-Christ, they're serious. Jennifer Love Hewitt. Ripping off (the really good) Medium from last year. JLH, I would watch my back if I were you, Patricia Arquette could take you out in the blink of an eye. And no one would mind.

Random bits that make me sad:

• That Janice Ian from Mean Girls is finally on a show, and it's on the WB opposite Lost and no one will ever see it.
• That Dennis Hopper and Benjamin Bratt are on a TV show together about the Pentagon, and it's a drama. Am I the only one who sees a potential for pure comedy there?
• If it weren't for all the actual potential good shows out there, I might actually be interested in Threshold any other year. Now? Yawn.

In other words, no one will ever see me once the fall starts up. Get your face time in now.

Bluegrass and Whatnot

Minor programming note: I am drugged up to the gills and feeling fine, although I can't entirely be sure that my head is still connected to my shoulders, so out of it I am. Therefore I take no responsibility for anything I say or do all day long.

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

Okay, first off, I must admit that on occasion I do listen to country music. This in and of itself is not shocking, I live in Texas, but I have no love for the genre, and say so at every available opportunity. I enjoy Garth Brooks and can, either through osmosis or genetic alteration, sing practically every song he has ever sung without owning a single album. But that is my only concession - I write the rest off as it just jumps up and down on my last nerve.

However, my one and only pure vice in the country-western musical area is Nickel Creek, a bluegrass trio that has some sort of inexplicable hold over me. The music is all folksy and southern and occasionally very Deliverance and there's a whole lot of banjo going on. I can't explain my love for them with any sort of rationality.

I actually own their last two CDs, which is something of a feat itself, since I can't usually even bring myself to be seen in public with country music, let alone Best Buy. So when Jim informed me that their new album came out last week, I did a little *ahem* online research to check out the new stuff before my eventual surreptitious trip over to Best Buy wearing a hat and really large sunglasses for the purchase.

And the new CD is. . . well the only word that comes to mind is awesome, but in a totally unexpected way. Because suddenly they're like some alternative emo band that just happens to feature a banjo and violin combo. I mean it starts out all unassuming and just a little, I don't know - edgy? for a bluegrass band that usually sings about lighthouses and whatnot, but still normal. And then they have the deliciously titled 'Scotch & Chocolate' instrumental track and you're in this little bubble of the status quo country world.

And then before you know it, there's this hard driving track about a crazy high school crush-cum-obsession and suddenly we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto. The last track busts out into complete mainstream territory with an ending full of heavy drums and processed music that fills me with undeniable glee and sounds like an underfed U2 or Coldplay and it's just really, really satisfying to me. For, again, entirely irrational reasons. Just makes me smile.

So yeah, going to Best Buy later, here's hoping I can get out of there without spending more than $100.00. I haven't been in so long, the attraction is going to be deadly. Especially when I'm this hopped up on pills.

The Most 12 year-old Livejournaler Thing I Will Ever Write

Hi this is jason and its -2000 degrees in my office and I am sick so I took some flu medicine but it was this kind that is supposed to not make you sleepy but instead it has made me all wired and hopped up and I still feel sick anyways and the bright lights hurt my eyes and I want to go home but I can't because I have to wait to hear back from a hockey team and the phone won't stop ringing and its so loud and I can't stop sneezing and did I mention its cold in here because it is and I'm all shivering and I really think that I should just go home but what if I miss the hockey call then I would get in trouble and I need to keep my job because I like having money and being able to buy things but what is the good of having money if you're dead in your office only I probably won't die I'll just feel bad and whine a whole lot until I get to go home and why isn't anyone being nice to me I am not feeling well people should say nice things to me and pet my hair and bring me soup.

Full Tilt Something

So in a fit of excess this weekend, we decided that rather than cook dinner like normal, rational, non-spend-crazy people, we would run down to the Happy Chinese Wok and Internet Cafe and load up on the most deliciously bad Chinese food available in the tri-county area. This is a bad idea on many levels - I am poor and allergic to MSG (which this food is coated in), it requires driving out in the 100 degree heat (since they refuse to deliver to my complex), and there is perfectly good food in my house (won't someone please think of the starving children in, like, Africa?).

But anyways, off we went. And it was awesome. It was also huge, because we went during dinner portions, which means they stuff a takeout box to overflowing and then give you a bucket of rice to go along with it. I love the Happy Wok and Internet Cafe. And I didn't even notice that it made me sick, because I was already feeling the effects of some heavy allergy medication I took unrelated to all that (the dork reading is high right now).

I can't be sure why I went through all of that lead up, but now we reach the brunt of my story. So I have more than half of this food left at the end of the night. I return it to its handy carrying case and stick it in the refrigerator for the next day (finally, someone thinks of the children). When lunch comes around the next morning (on a No-Pants Sunday you're allowed to have lunch in the morning. It's a rule that I just made up) I pop that sucker in the microwave and get ready to enjoy some high quality delayed Chinese cuisine.

Only, the act of microwaving day old General Tao chicken seems to have some radical element to it, which causes the chicken to spontaneously harden into these little rock-like elemental parts that defy the general laws of nature. But just because the food is suddenly harder than my teeth, that doesn't mean that I'm not gonna eat it. I mean, seriously. If it was once food I paid for, it will be in my belly, sooner or later.

I toss it all on a plate, grab a fork and dig in. It's not bad. Not bad at all. Nearing the end of the first quarter of the meal, I take the fork and go to cut one of the larger chicken-rocks into a more manageable chicken-pebble size. Now, there may have been some level of resistance, but I do not recall it being that great. But apparently I pushed it a bit too hard. And by a bit, I mean that the fork snapped in half while trying to divide the chicken and proceeded to send every ounce of my lunch in every available direction. There was chicken, carrots, rice, plate, and bits of fork everywhere you could look in my living room.

And this wasn't just some, like, plastic fork that broke under pressure. This was one of my high quality, given to me by my grandmother, stainless steel and faux-crystal forks that she won from her book club. Disastrous.

Have you ever stood in the middle of your living room, coated in rice and day-old Chinese food, holding the useless end of a broken fork on No-Pants Sunday?

It's sort of a low point in your life.

More Pointless Reviewing

I've come to realize that the majority of my movie reviews are entirely useless to anyone and everyone. Primarily because I suck at writing, but secondarily because they focus on just my reaction to the movie, rather than the movie itself.

That said, an objective review of The Skeleton Key. Very well done for what it was. Tightly written except where it tried to explain to much. Better acting than one could ever expect, and finally achieved the impossible of getting me to distinguish between Kate Hudson and Heather Graham, which for some reason were the same person in my head until Saturday. And of course Peter Sarsgaard seems physically incapable of making a bad movie, thus he is very nice here.

I was expecting something more scary in a traditional horror movie sense, but was pleasantly surprised to see it go the more psychological and creepy way, rather than flat out scares. I would definitely recommend it as a nice little diversion for a night out.

Now, for the biased review. Here's where you should stop reading if you haven't seen it yet, because my rant intrinsically ruins the movie, without even discussing the plot in the least.

You've been warned.

Okay, so previews suck. What is wrong with letting a movie surprise you with it's story once you've actually sat down to watch it? Are American audiences so jaded that we have to be offered a complete summary of the movie beforehand in order to lure us in? Because I'm pretty sure it's got the opposite effect going on.

Take this Red Eye movie coming up. Had they stuck with that short teaser trailer that was all pretending to be an opening for a romantic comedy, I would be anticipating this movie with reckless abandon. Rachel McAdams and Cillian Murphy? Together in a movie? And he's evil? Oh hells yes.

Instead, we get the new trailer which they cannot play enough times at the theatre and on TV where they blow the whole plot out into the open. And now I know it will suck. (I'd like to add "And I won't go see it," but let's not kid ourselves, I'm going to see it anyways.) The air of mystery and hotness surrounding the whole thing was wasted. Boo on all the promo departments out there.

This relates to The Skeleton Key how, you ask? Because the promo people were actually very good about keeping the storyline under control. All you get from the trailers is: Kate Hudson, spooky old house, skeleton key, rattling doors, Peter Sarsgaard, host of creepy old people. That is exactly what it needs to be. It got me interested enough to go see it opening weekend with mild anticipation. Bravo and how.

Except. No. Because they messed around with the trailer they show on TV for opening weekend to include a quick quote from a reviewer "with the best twist ending since The 6th Sense." Fuck you, marketing department.

Now that I know there's a twist coming up, I can't help but look for it. I'm not made of stone. In fact, my mind is so loud and annoying at all moments of my life, it's a miracle I can keep a sane face up in society. So I figured out the twist at right around the 48 minute mark of the movie, and had to endure the rest realizing that what should have been a very sweet reveal at the end had already been spoiled for me. Just the knowledge that there was a spoiler available out there was enough to spoil me for the movie.

I've discussed this with people at length over the weekend, and the majority of them say that it's my fault and I'm just too cynical to be able to enjoy movies without over thinking. Bah, I say to all of them, because that ending would have totally rock-ed my socks, had I not been looking for it.

Final tally: I am too cynical and movie marketing companies suck. But The Skeleton Key was really good. You should go see it.

A Message to Myself 10 Minutes Ago

Hi,

If a cute boy offers you popcorn, for the love of God, be nice and take it.

. . .

Loser.

- Yours Truly

Theory vs. Practice

Everything is so much better in theory.

In theory, getting a new apartment is a fun adventure wherein I can get a nicer, cheaper place where the garbage disposal actually works and isn't across the street from a crackhouse and a cult that lives in an abandoned church.

In theory, cutting caffeine out of my diet will help me stay healthy and keep my heart from exploding suddenly, probably on the highway causing a multicar pile-up and many people to be late for work.

In theory, shopping for furniture is great because I actually have some money to spend and I can finally stop living like a hobo with a 4 year old futon and the oldest couch in the world, and present a unified front of dignified furniture that matches. I mean, how adult is that?

In theory, the combination of my haircut and exercise program should be getting me into shape - specifically a shape that is much more attractive - as well as relieving my tendency to get winded on mild inclines or carrying my laundry, all while looking fabulous and stylish with flawless hair.

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In practice, the world is a cold and angry, and bitter, bitter place.

In practice, the process of finding a new apartment that fits my requirements is like a draconian three act tragic opera, with misuderstandings, murder plots, and appearances by the devil thrown in for good measure. The apartment that you want in Dallas? Is either too expensive, in the wrong location, or unavailable until January. And even if I did find a place, moving out from my apartment will require so much packing and carrying and pulling down curtains and putting things in boxes and moving those boxes and putting back the old curtains that are probably broken by now and....yeah, this apartment thing is like the opposite of a grand adventure. It's a lame non-adventure. Plus, I have to give 2 months notice at the current place, so my time frame on making a final decision just got cut by 3 weeks.

In practice, cutting caffeine out of my diet is akin to going cold turkey off crack cocaine. Skipping that morning cup of coffee is analogous to wielding an ice pick directly into the back of my skull. The 10 o'clock hour consists of nothing but me nodding off in front of my files, you know, where your head sort of falls forward and then you catch yourself with a quick start and some light drooling, all with your eyes practically sticking shut. And life really isn't worth living if you can't have that delicious burning feeling that comes with the first drink of Coke directly out of a cold can right after work. Instead, I come home to freaking Sunny Delight in a plastic cup. Tastes like undeath.

In practice, buying new furniture is just like getting a new apartment, only you will spend far more for three questionable objects that do nothing for you except provide a place to sit, and whatever decision you make, it will haunt you for at minimum the next 5 years of your life. In the past I have spent over 3 consecutive hours rending my hair and internally debating whether or not to get a television while standing in Best Buy. And buying a television should be the easiest decision in my life. Have you read this thing? That's all I ever talk about. Just the idea of committing to a set of furniture fills me with such paralyzing dread that I should probably bring a pillow and blanket to the store, because it will take multiple days of indecision and pondering and weighing the options and color schemes. And by the end I will be bald and in a near catatonic state.

And in practice, my exercise program has done nothing for my endurance and instead squared off all my edges and left me looking like I weigh more than when I started (which could potentially be true, there was that thing with the two pies) and was built out of Legos. I'm very square all of a sudden. And the haircut... well we accept it, because I like it, even if it is so short on the sides that you can see directly into my scalp and/or skull and/or brain, and even if it makes me look like even more of a hipster than ever, and is all weird and spiked out everywhere and looks like I'm trying way too hard. Anything is better than the over-hot longness of before. I will not be a slave to current trends, by God.

....Okay, I will, but not that one, dammit.

Fine, Popular Culture Can Have My Soul

Lord help me.

So we went and saw Dukes of Hazard last night. Despite the fact that I once swore on my box set of My So-Called Life DVDs that I would sooner eviscerate myself with a spoon than go see that movie.

And....I didn't hate it.

Seriously, just shoot me now.

I don't want to go into the whole thing, but:

• I laughed on several occasions, and not just at the teenage boys sitting next to us who would moan whenever Jessica Simpson appeared on the screen.
• I find it deeply wrong that Seann William Scott can make me laugh with his acting abilities. Isn't there, like, a pill I can take to cure that?
• Perhaps I have suffered a recent blow to the head and have just repressed the memory.

I will also give them (I would almost say respect but... no) credit for being so completely unapologetic about their Jessica Simpson ogling. I bet if you timed it, at least 8% of that movie was devoted to panning up or down her body in some sort of non-outfit. They do indeed know how to aim at their target market.

And now I'm so depressed that I'm going to end this thing right here. I beg you, do not go see this movie, you'll only encourage them.

(An aside: What do you get when you cross a donkey and an onion? A piece of ass that brings a tear to your eye.) (What can I say, we're easily amused.)

What you get when I can't stop typing.

When in the course of human events one is needing some new furniture and an IKEA opens up in the general vicinity, it becomes necessary to make the trip out to the store on the inaugural weekend to see what all the fuss is about.

And as such first you must get together a pilgrimage, consisting of no less than 4 people and two cars, so as to heighten the degree of organizational difficulty. You must also take the toll road all the way there, so you can actually feel the money being siphoned out of your pockets before you even get into the store. And of course, when you actually reach the exit for the store, you will find a traffic jam of such epic proportions that you will make two consecutive loops around the store at a distance of at least two miles from the entrance just looking for the one non-blocked-off entrance into the parking lot.

Naturally, once you've parked and reach the entrance, you will find that there is a huge and winding line that you must first go through just to get into the store. This line begins at the back of the store, and will doubleback it's way around roughly 14 times before you actually get within viewing distance of that entrance again. In fact, the line will be so long that they will have a station where they hand out complimentary water so the line is not littered with the bodies of the less-hearty shoppers who did not think to stockpile provisions beforehand. Multiple seasons will go by while you are in this line. It will go from blistering heat, to cool breezes, to hard rain, and back to an eerie calm all while you are following the little white plastic chains on their snakelike little paths. And your group will have been divided and you'll be left with only one companion, who will then put on his iPod and ignore you, so while you think you're talking to him (he doesn't say much in normal conversation, so it's more apt to say talking at him), it turns out that this is more of a monologue for all the other people in the line to enjoy and wonder "Who is that odd boy and why is he talking to himself?"

Someday, God willing, you will reach the end of the line and enter the store itself. This will be akin to reaching the holy land and you will have to restrain yourself from falling to your knees and kissing the new floors, if for no other reason than at least 1 million feet have already passed over it in the last 2 hours alone, not to mention the majority of those feet were tiny children and who knows where their feet have been.

The store will, of course, have helpfully placed arrows along the floor and on occasional signs, giving off the feel of a Disney World rail ride in a way that only a Swedish based novelty furniture store can. The number of people in the store will defy your conventional descriptive processes. The word multitude will seem inadequate and you will contemplate the nature and etymology of "a million-bajillion."

First, you will find the living room furniture, your theoretical reason for coming here in the first place. And while the items are cheaper than your many couch-hunting expeditions of the past month, you will not be able to get over the fact that a) the colors really aren't speaking to your inner-fashionista, and b) it really looks like cheap furniture. And you will wonder what exactly you were expecting, seeing as you used the phrase "Let's go look at some cheap furniture" on your way out the door before this whole adventure began. Thus, you will be sad.

The little arrows will then point you onward and upward, through shelvings and bedrooms, and offices, and many other sundry living spaces, occasionally artfully arranged in tiny dioramas of how one might live in, say, "245 square feet" of apartment. You will realize, perhaps, that IKEA is catering to a different level of clientele, one that lives in smaller quarters than your average Texan. Because you may be wrong, but you're highly skeptical that the city of Frisco contains a single house that has less that 1,500 square feet of available space, and that's just in the kitchen alone. Still, you will marvel at it all, because it is very modern and fashionable branding, in just the way that high volume marketing strives for.

You will pass through the children's area and it will confirm your longheld understanding that children and you will never go together. They're just so hyper and/or whiny that the simple concept of keeping tabs on any ONE child would be enough to drive you to an early grave. You will pass by a mother with 4 of them, each one arms a'flailing and dashing through the multicolor beds, and just stare in mute respect. With only a slight questioning of her sanity.

Eventually, the arrows and furniture will give way to just sheer merchandise and you will pick up a few very cheap items, all while exercising every muscle of restraint in your body. (Because that rag rug is only 2 dollars! For just the cost of two of those tiny KFC chicken sandwiches you could have that rug for the rest of your life. Never mind it is one of the ugliest things you have ever encountered in a free-trade marketplace, it's only two frickin' dollars!) Finally, you will settle on: a cheap bathroom scale because you always have wondered how much you weigh (answer: much more than you used to. Perhaps making all those pies was a tactical error on your part), and a hanging black windsock of storage that yet again your vocabulary fails to depict with any accuracy.

Your final stop on this whirlwind tour of European fads is the warehouse section where your companions will pick up the actual boxes that contain their new units of physical furniture and you will be left with a feeling of intense jealousy, as they have actually achieved their goal of item ownership while all you have is a windsock of questionable storage. All that is left for you is an interminable wait in the checkout lines, where once again geological eras pass by outside those bright blue and yellow doors. Bands rise and fall in popularity. You develop a deep psychic bond of empathy with the poor marachi band that is stuck at the entrance forever.

The exit and return home should be surprisingly without difficulty, and leave you vaguely wary, as everything thus far has been such an epic production, you will question whether or not a tsunami or earthquake will strike during your final turn into the apartment complex to bump up the degree of difficulty a couple of notches just to keep you on your toes.

Construction of all the cute furniture your companions purchased will provide a nice easy way to come down from the high-key stress you previously had going, and although you will suffer an occasional splinter, by the end of the night, you will be certain that you had quite the time.

Quite the time indeed.

Dallas is Weird

On the way in to work today, there were two signs that caught my attention. One was tacked up to a telephone pole, the other was in some way attached to a 'Caution Construction Ahead' sign. They were basically identical, both handwritten in what almost certainly had to be Crayola brand markers on white posterboard.

They both said:
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Unwanted Items?
CALL - 214-345-****
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I can't begin to wonder what that was about. But now I really want to call that number. Only I don't have an items that are unwanted. Maybe if I get some furniture this weekend I can call about my couch and futon that I'll need to abandon.

Intrigued is never a good way to go through life.

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So, IKEA Frisco just opened up like two days ago. I will be going either tonight or tomorrow morning. I have a very good feeling about this place. the IKEA in Houston was like the mothership beconing to me. This one is like 10 miles away. I am all over cheap Swedish furniture in bright colors. If there's a store gayer than IKEA, I haven't found it yet.

In the interest of full disclosure

I have made my disdain for Hippies publicly known, what with their long hair and their needing haircuts and whatnot. However, with the results here, I may have to reconsider my position:

I am 34% Hippie.

I need to step away from the tie-dye. I smell too good to be a hippie and my dad is probably a cop. Being a hippie is not a fashion craze, man. It was a way of life, in the 60’s, man.

Take the
Hippie Test
@ FualiDotCom

Do you see this? Wanna-be Hippie? Could all my posturing about the bull of tie-dye, peace, love, and ponytails on guys just be a masked desire to join their ranks?

This will require further review. But until the time when I actually find a commune that has internet access and cable, I will continue to make fun of hippies in all their forms.

Although now instead it makes me feel like I'm in elementary school and knocking down some girl because I secretly like her. Which I never actually did, so it's a very disorienting experience.

Shadow of What Now?

Finished off the last of Orson Scott Card's Shadow series, Shadow of the Giant, after slamming through the three books that came before it in roughly 4 days altogether. It's a good series. The books get a little too politically-mired down and there's a bit too much introspection when there should be more dialogue, but on the whole, they're most excellent.

That being said, I will never read another book, ever. Ever, I say!

Because, man, that was a depressing ending. If ever a book needed to go a little slower at the end and savor the big moments, this was one, and instead I ended up all sad and wondering. A) it was a tremendously sad ending to a generally already upsetting book, and B) it left way too many threads dangling, so the series can continue on. Which I'm not against, I love all of OSC writing, and the confirmed fact that there will be many more books in the same universe (more on that later) makes me happy, in a disgruntled sort of way because I don't have them now.

I think maybe I'm just spoiled by the larger books that I've been reading lately. There were just so many characters to care about, that when you get down to it, 260 pages is not enough to cover anyone in depth. You get some good characterization on, say, Petra for instance, and it's very well done. But then at the same time, I can physically feel parts of Peter's character not getting expressed due to lack of room. And don't get me started on how Bean was basically not in this book at all.

I'm all for economy of writing, but wait, no I'm not. Pay him by the word! I want intense, Cryptonomicon-length, detailed examinations of each character. When he wraps things up at the end, I feel very sad, but had he put in some serious effort to developing the relationships that appeared in the last 50 pages, he could have had me crying, curled up in a little ball on the living room floor. Not that I necessarily want that, but in this case I sort of did. It's a great series, pull out all the stops, by God.

But there will be more books and further exploits so I'll take what he gives and like it. AND I was reading around the 'net and saw that OSC is planning a post-Children of the Mind book/possibly-series, which fills me with such unadulterated glee that words aren't very helpful. That series is hands-down my favorite Sci-fi story ever. Might even be my favorite story in any category of anything.

So as we get to the end I suppose I probably will read a book again. I couldn't even keep up that statement for an entire post. It's best not to delude ourselves in such a manner. Plus, what would I do with all the books I already have? If there's anything I am not, it is wasteful of literature.

Wow, could this be less-interesting to everyone else in the universe besides myself? Probably not unless I started talking about World of Warcraft and how much I love my Shaman. So I'll totally just stop here.

Give a hoot, read a book.

Seasons in the Sun

So in addition to watching every movie available to my grasp that did not star Jessica Biel and Ray Charles as jet plane pilots up to no good, I also did some cooking this weekend.

Specifically, I baked a pie. It was a cream-cheese blueberry pie and it was completely awesome. It is a pie of legacy, in that my mother passed down to me the very complex secret recipe required to instill the proper amount of deliciousness. (The secret step: Now stir in at least one full cup of pure granulated sugar. Maybe more.) I managed to eat all but two slices of the thing in the course of about 30 hours. I now weigh more than your average oil tanker. That's another part of the secret recipe. And I still have enough ingredients to make at least one, possibly two more pies at a later date. Although the creation of pie #1 involved the exploding of my new electric mixer that I bought specifically for the occasion, so I will either have to get a new one, or learn how to wisk things incredibly fast. It's never a good sign when a small appliance starts shooting sparks at you within 30 seconds of turning it on for the first time.

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I was also involved in a hideous car crash this weekend, which I am happy to report was not entirely my fault. By which I mean it was not my fault at all, since the fool decided mid-turn to slam on his breaks and then back up into traffic and also into the front left side of the TOM. Luckily, there was no damage except a crack in the little yellow casing on the light. I think it greatly disturbed Sean who was passengered on the voyage and will probably never ride along with me again. I just take these sort of things in stride, however, as people love to run into the TOM. I believe this makes the it the 3rd time since January? And yet, the little guy still soldiers on. He's such a trooper. But it does instill in me the desire to actually get around to getting a new car and finally let the poor TOM retire to a farm where he can run around in a big field and have fun chasing squirrels and whatnot.

Spin me, clown!

Another weekend passed, another slew of movies available for review. I'm starting to think that purely content free is the way to go. Summer turns my brain to mush, so this is all anyone's getting out of me until the first time we dip below 85 during daylight hours.

Rick. I don't know if this should count as a movie review, since a) no one has ever heard of it and b) it was so painful that I wonder if it actually happened. Now that I read through the supplementary materials online it makes a bit more sense, as I find that it was based on Verdi's Rigoletto, which fills in a bunch of the questions I was wondering about in the plot. Because I see it now (it's weirdly faithful to the opera while still being set in a corporate atmosphere), but that doesn't mean that it was worth anything. And there was no singing! It did have Sandra Oh in it, however, and I do love her, but that did not save this movie. Ugh.

Hostage. The second movie from the goodwill fount that is Sean and his unlimited Blockbuster-ness (Fourth, actually, if we consider Constantine that we watched on Friday, and the Family Guy movie that he provided us with that same night. Sean = benevolence) I don't know if it is my penchant for Bruce Willis action movies, the relative lateness of the night that I watched it, or the pitcher of hurricanes that we drank while watching it, but somehow I ended up really liking this movie. It was full of wacked out crazy people and Bruce Willis chewing enough scenery that by the end there was barely a wall standing.

Sky High. Fine, get it out of your system. Mock me as such, I care not. Actually, I'm not sure which gene I've inherited that makes me fall for Disney movies. Maybe it's just one of those childhood operant conditioning things (like my erstwhile love of McDonalds which I have repressed in light of the Prongs of Health) that just equates Disney movies with happiness. Whatever it is, this movie was just so cute. And there were superheros, and stupid jokes, and wacky teenage love subplots of ridiculousness. I can even forgive the fact that the main storyline was so painfully obvious that 4 year old child sitting directly behind my ear figured out the twist 20 minutes before it actually occurred. In my world of Disney rankings, this falls behind Holes and just barely ahead of Freaky Friday. Seriously, so cute.

Oh, and the illegal bootleg copy of the Family Guy movie was pretty funny. That's a good show they've got going there. Although I sort of wished they would have used their not being on broadcast TV a little more liberally. But as it was discussed, I'm probably just spoiled by the South Park movie, which managed to raise the bar for offensiveness so high that no one will ever be able to match it. Oh, my poor desensitized soul.

And that's exactly where my weekend went. Stay tuned for additional comments concerning a horrific car crash and my making of a pie.

Linky, Clicky, Shiny Objects!

I had this thing planned, where I would write, like, an actual entry about real things, maybe even involving dialogue and a plot and it would be funny. But instead, I've decided on massive linkings around the internet to things that won't stop cracking me up.

(Completely unironically, almost every one of these things could be found by hitting all my Elsewhere links. Is it a double word score for the blog when you add multiple layers of unoriginality on the same page?)

• Disgruntled Harry Potter Fan Releases "Corrected" Version of Book : All the fandom wank condensed into one easy to swallow bite of hilarity. (For the darker side, the real compiled listing of the actual wanks that came out following the Half Blood Prince. Still amazingly funny, but as you get deeper into it, there's a lot more sad and creepy thrown in.) Once again, this one might be more geared to just be interesting to me, since I have a little background in it. (via: The Rage Diaries)
• Uwe Boll's Dungeon Siege : Go read the entire press release. All of it. Don't stop at the part where they mention King Burt Reynolds. Done? Okay, seriously, is there any way this movie cannot be completely awesome? Imagine Burt Reynolds, that That Guy from Goodfellas, the girl who got knee cancer in the worst movie ever made, that annoying guy from Scream, and Gimli from Lord of the Rings all sitting around a card table in a basement playing Dungeons and Dragons. I will be the first goddamn person in line at the ticket booth, I promise you that. (via: Videogamey)
• Penny Arcade and Found Cake : "No! I even asked somebody! I was like: Is this your cake? And he was like: No."
• I Harth Darth - Diagnosis: Lame : Everything about these comics is so cutesy that I almost shudder, but they make me laugh so inappropriately no matter the time or the place. (Bonus: my favorite one of all time. If I had a dollar for every time I quoted something in this 5 panel comic, I would have 14 dollars.)
• All On Sale: Jesus Videotapes! : I kid, all you Baptists, I kid. Also, it's so easy to tell that this really happened, because the description is so true to life in the semi-rural south. I've been to that garage sale, man. Also: "Hello? Skipper, I am NOT kidding you -- stay away from Ken! I know he's smooth down there! I like him that way!"

And one last one for the road:

• This just in: The terrorists have won, Glitter flopped. Mariah says movie was just too cutting-edge for it's own good.

I will at least think about posting something original before the sun sets. But I promise nothing! ...except, y'know, that.

Bits 'n Bats

Random things floating in my head right now that I wish to enumerate:

• I really hope whoever invented waffle fries won some sort of award for delicious inventiveness.
• If you bring banana bread to the office, you damn well better have enough for the whole class. Otherwise you're just mean.
• Man, did The Fantastic Four suck, and hard. A whirling vortex of weird filming, bad special effects, and really horrible acting. Throw in a "plot" that was basically "Hey, we're the Fantastic Four, aren't we cute?" / "I'm a bad guy RAR!" / "Defeated!" and, oh my how I wish I could have back both those 2 hours, and my $6.50. Lame to the power of four.
• Despite any newfound compulsions you may have, it is never a good idea to rub your head up against the wall of an elevator, like a cat. Especially if there are other people in the elevator.
• I finished Magic Street over the weekend. I did not like it enough to justify the purchase. That makes me sad. It was good, but it veered off track sharply at the end. I still think the premise is awesome, and I respect the effort, but I really should have just borrowed it from the library.
• I still have Shadow of the Giant to get to, but first have to get through the other books in the series again, to remember what's going on. Just now finished Shadow of the Hedgemon, in about 5 hours of pure reading. God, how on earth can a book be that compelling? It's not even that great. I have no rationalizations for anything I do anymore.
• I haven't watched any of the summer fare on TV this season. Except for The 4400, which is awesomely addictive. It has a pure evil, non-alien baby from the future and plenty of hot guys to go around. I can only hope that the rest of TV hasn't been great. I wish now that I had watched The Inside more than just that one episode, because it looks really kick-ass, but for some reason I can't wrap my mind around summer programming schedules. It's so much easier just to turn on TNT and watch 3 consecutive hours of Law and Order instead of thinking.
• I have oscillated between buying a new car, buying new furniture, and buying a new computer so many times over the last two months that my brain feels like a whirling centrifuge. I'm going to have to make a decision soon, if for no other reason than my mind will finally be silenced. It's so hard to decide, though. Compound that with the whole apartment-hunting thing starting up and you might as well prepare the straight jacket today. Y'all know I don't do well with decisions.
• Have you seen where the Mavericks might release Michael Finley for the luxury tax write-off? That really sucks, but it's good for him, I guess, so I can't feel too bad. But I love my poor Mavs as they are. We already lost Nash, must we also lose Fin? Where will I place my emotions? Dirk will be all alone, and everyone will be sad. And by everyone, I mean me.
• I planted some seeds in a little flower box out on my patio roughly 11 days ago. I have yet to see any flowers sprout, and am getting impatient. I tried talking to them at first, but it didn't work. I think I need to move on to yelling at them. Has anyone ever tried disciplining flowers? I need advice.

Okay, I'm done. Spotless mind, now that that's all out. I love spewing purely random noise out into the gaping maw that is the internet.

Lowered Expectations Theatre

What happened to me? I used to be a cinema snob. I could turn my nose up at even the most well-made film, provided it was targeted for mass-market appeal. The words "summer blockbuster" would create an internal shudder that could go on for days. I had tastes and distinctions and could complain about anything.

Now, we are about to hit the end of the summer, and I've had exactly one (1!) movie experience that I didn't like (burn in hell, Madagascar). Out of how many? Just off the top of my head I count 10 movies. That just will not stand, you know?

Do you think that maybe I just enjoy going to the movies so much, that it doesn't really matter what is showing? Perhaps I love sticky floors and the smell of old popcorn enough that I can forgive anything so long as the big screen entertains me with its bright shiny colors?

The latest entry in my ongoing fall into banality is the hotness-fest that is The Island. First off, we need to discuss exactly who directed this film. If there was anyone who personified my cinematic arch-nemesis in the past, Michael Bay was it. Look over that filmography. Bad Boys (I & II). Armageddon. Pearl frickin' Harbor. This movie already had so much badness going for it, and we haven't even got to the premise yet.

But guess what? Surprise, surprise, I loved this stupid movie. I am so shallow.

1) Scarlett Johansson fits this movie so perfectly it's almost like a meta-statement on the plot itself. It's like she was genetically engineered to play this role, perfect level of hotness calibrated to an astonishing degree. I'll be the first to admit that I totally did not get Lost In Translation, but I still recognize that it was very well done and she was excellent in it. But I think she fits even better here in the quinessential cheesy summer flick. She has Action Movie Face.

2) Ewan McGregor. If there is anything in the world that ruins me for a movie, he is it. Seriously. Just ends me. And there is some sort of weird inverse relationship going on, because the older he gets, the more hot he equals. And then he tries an American accent in this movie? Be still, my tiny, dorky heart. I give up, and I'm overwhelmingly happy that he sold out his indie cred for Michael Bay blockbuster - even though it is apparently a spectacular flop.

Which is insane, because it actually is a really well done movie. The action scenes are ridiculously gratuitous, but the whole movie works on its own as a vaguely creepy sci-fi story cross-bred with a futuristic action-adventure. It's funny, and creepy, and exciting, and would you look at me I'm gushing over a summer movie won't someone shoot me now?

Ugh.

Also, and I hate to bring this up because I don't think it's possible to sound more like a 12 year-old girl, but that first kiss between the two of them is the hottest hot thing that was ever hot. Yeah, okay, leave me to contemplate my own demise of taste in peace.

Ruined forever, I say.

I am easily amused

Google wins my affection today.

The Moon.

(Zoom all the way in)

Heh.

Yeah, it's a slow day.

Pinpointing

Let's see if we can nail down exactly what the best part of today was, shall we?

Was it:

• When I woke up 5 minutes past the time that I usually get to the office and realized that some how my alarm clock was flashing 12:00, despite the fact that no other appliances had gone out overnight?
• When I was rushing through the (pitch black due to maintenance) parking garage and some chick threw her cigarette butt out the window and into my hair?
• When some overly large woman with an orange perm from beyond the grave spilled her entire Coke down my back while I was eating lunch?
• Or when I was heading back to the office (with a wet and sticky back) and some blond girl in a red Mustang rear-ended the Truck of Malfunction and then sped off around a corner before I got any additional information?

I'm going to say it would have to be the part with the cigarette in my hair, because at least then I could enjoy the delicious menthol stylings of someone else's lung irritants with the added bonus of that great burning hair smell!

In other news, everything sucks. How was your day?

Interrupt

We interrupt the planned Harry Potter-fest for a discussion of candy.

(Aside: I doubt any of you go in for scary internet fandoms like I do, but seriously, the fallout from this book is some of the funniest shit in the history of time. Is LiveJournal just a magnet for people who are excessively dramatic? Whatever it is, man is it hilarious to watch.)

So all I eat nowadays is candy. How did this happen? Consider every place I frequent:

• Next to my computer at work - box of SweetTarts
• Next to my computer at home - bag full of M&Ms
• Next to the round chair in my living room - box of Goobers
• Next to the couch - half eaten bag of Gummi Bears
• On the futon - what's left of a roll of Sprees, another box of Goobers
• On my bed (which I found when I woke up this morning) - two Reeces's Peanut Butter Cups and an open pack of Big Red chewing gum
• On a chair by the dining room table - roughly 30 giant Pixi Sticks in a display box.

Seriously. Look at that list. Is there a patron saint of diabetes? I'm running purely on sugary adrenaline here, no doubt. Yesterday I was wondering why I hadn't had the urge to drink a Coke in a few days. Obviously my body was saving itself from total shutdown in the face of enough sugar to feed every remaining panda in the world. (I am told that pandas eat sugar. This person may be pulling my leg, however. I do not feel like doing a Google search on pandas and sugar at this exact second, so I'm going to go with it for now, because I like the thought of sentient pandas hiding Pixi Sticks up in their trees.)

The other result of this is that I will no doubt have an acne break-out of epic proportions like I'm 15 again, at any moment now. I can almost feel it happening as I type. I feel this is an equal trade off - all the deliciousness of taste is transmuted into a horrible visage. It's something to do with karma, no doubt - how I'm eating the closest thing to physical happiness in the world selfishly and it's reflected in my appearance.

Or, y'know, not. Whatever. All I know is that there is chocolate, and refined sugar to be had at every available moment of the day, and I will avail myself to it. There was nothing in the Prongs of Health that forbid eating my own body weight in Goobers. And I have totally stuck to the plan (maybe not so much in reality on the spazzing part, but at least in spirit), so I feel completely rationalized in my lifestyle.

So what? So there.

A Rambling Harry Potter Talk

(Wherein I try to discuss a book without discussing a book, because I was so adamant about not being spoiled, and then I got spoiled halfway through by accident and cursed the gods, but then it didn't really matter because I already had guessed, but I still don't want to ruin it for anyone else. Short form: No Spoilers.)

The last four times I have finished a Harry Potter book, I have decided immediately following it that I didn't like it. Each time, after a set period, I reversed my decision sweepingly.

With Prisoner of Azkaban, it took 2 hours. It remains my favorite book in the series so far.

With Goblet of Fire, it took maybe 5 hours. And immediately following that span, I read it again. I really like it, almost as much as 3.

With Order of the Phoenix, it took me more than a week. I appreciate this one more than all the rest. In that I think it is very well done and mature and what it needs to be, for all the badness that it was. It upped the stakes and despite some mind-boggling turns, was the perfect amount of dark, which was a ton. Lots of darkness is a good way to get in my good graces.

Half Blood Prince took only 6 hours. I don't like a lot of the decisions made with the story, but I've come around to almost all the points, which is insane, considering there are still occasions of OotP that I still seethe over. I'm sort of in shock over the entire thing.

Weirdly, I have the opposite problem with this book from the others, namely that I think the characterization was off in certain cases, which I never expected. Not in a horribly noticeable way, just, like, (this is so hard without actually mentioning the book) a couple of off notes in a mostly spot-on book.

Also, there were scenes missing. Which shouldn't happen in a book that is almost 700 pages long. I needed three additional scenes added to this book, and without them, I have to stretch on some things that I don't like. (But it gives way to a lot of juicy fandom issues, which is an entire post in and of itself, not that anyone who reads this would care about it.)

But I've made my peace. It probably falls in line after OotF in terms of favoritism, but that's after one reading. There are layers to go. I didn't really appreciate OotF until after the third reading. It might get bumped up.

So yeah. Final result, really good stuff. Bravo.

There will be more later, even though no one cares, but its all about me, dammit.

Also: Comments are free reign for spoilers, so don't click it or look down unless you are prepared for the consequences.

A Fairy Tale of Awkwardness

She was standing directly in front of the panel to the elevator. She had her hand hovering over the button. But she wouldn't push it. Her finger would dart forward and then stop, as she processed additional information.

"Yeah Mom, that sounds great. Well..." her finger moved forward in a move that looked like finality.

But the instant before depression: "...No, I didn't know she was getting married." Her finger rested literally on the button without the final bit of force to finish off the motion. She managed to tuck the cell phone into the crook of her neck and began fishing around in her purse for something, still all the while guarding that button like it was her own.

I stood there watching this dramatization go on, wondering exactly what I should do. I have moved far to silently, and she obviously did not realize there was someone else waiting. Knowing the level of reception one gets in the elevator, I fully understood her predicament and her plan. But how to alert her to the fact that I was waiting without bodily moving her out of the way?

She had now found what she was looking for (a pad of paper and pen) and managed to start scribbling furiously while nodding. Her hand had moved from the button, but her entire body still blocked off all access to the panel.

There was no good way to get into her line of sight without being very creepy and entering the realm of personal space. I could try to make some noise with my shoes and some excessive walking but my initial try left her still oblivious. And I felt it would not be prudent to start stomping loudly, because that would give the wrong impression. Namely, that I was insane.

Perhaps a light cough. "Ahem," one would say.

"Ahem." I said.

This was a poorly timed polite cough, as it coincided with her recitation of a phone number she had recently acquired. I was left with no actions.

By this point, I had been standing around far too silently for far too long. We passed the point of normalcy a while back, so now it was just ridiculously awkward. What if she turned around and realized that I had just been standing there for ages, mute for no good reason? I needed to find some way to alert her to the fact that I required the elevator, without letting on that I had just wasted 5 minutes of my life in silent contemplation of now ungainly timid I was.

One more try on the polite cough, and then I will just give up and take the damnable stairs, I decided.

"Ahem," is what I meant to say. But the cough was ill-advised somehow, and my tiny cough got caught in my throat and instead came out as a much more full-bodied "Cough, cough, (I am dying of pneumonia) COUGH."

She was bewildered, and spun around. By this point I was practically doubled over, trying to realign my windpipe, wondering exactly how these things happen to me.

We both get on the elevator.

"I hope you weren't waiting long. Sometimes I get distracted by my phone. You know how moms can be."

"Cough...no....ahem...not waiting long at all. I totally understand."

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This is how my brain works.

So thorough it's almost like depth

I try not to be, but sometimes I'm really self-involved. And by sometimes, I mean all the time. Let's not kid ourselves, just the simple fact that this blog exists is proof enough of excessive egocentricity. And lately it has extended well out from there.

Did you ever have a day where you felt, to borrow a line, irresponsibly hot? This is not something I am used to, as my general Cro-Magnon appearance and gait does not lend itself to levels of unbearable attractiveness. But Friday, man did I feel like I was working it and hard. My hair was actually doing its thing for once, my morning shave hadn't left me with the usual "just got out of an ice storm" burnt look to it, the new exercise routine seemed like it actually had paid off in terms of flattering my frame in my work clothes, and the outfit itself was totally coordinated.

All this just to set up the exact mood that I was in for the actual story. It heightens the effect, because the fall is generally greater.

So it's Friday and I'm in my office, working up some files and updating a database, feeling particularly cocky and self-assured. I have some business cards that I'm filing through and inputting into the computer. Now, in my office there are several of those big cubicle-type desk units, that basically cover three walls of the place. Each one is separated by maybe 6 inches of space from the others, so you can reach the electrical outlets behind them.

Somehow, I manage to drop a couple of the business cards into one of the little separations, deep in the back. Being the lazy person that I am, I try in vain to reach them by extending my arm from where I am sitting, but this is a no go. Still not wanting to have to actually get up and/or bend down to actually get to them, I instead just wheel my desk chair over as far as it will go, and just wedge my shoulder down into the separation to get to them. Again, I am about 5 inches too far off.

At another crossroads. I could: move the chair out of the way, squat down and crawl forward the requisite 15 inches under the desk to retrieve the cards. This does not appeal to me. I would rather just angle myself down a bit more while still getting to sit down. Because, as my oh-so-clever mind has realized, if I instead line up my neck with the gap, rather than my shoulder, I can actually slide into the crack and reach the cards.

This plan is flawless, up until the phone rings directly next to my ear, I freak out and manage to kick the rolling chair out from under me. The chair rolls completely out of my reach and suddenly I have no support for any part of my body, except from the sides of my jaw and upper neck that are both keeping my head from falling through the gap and simultaneously preventing me from breathing.

It is at this moment that the weekly courier chooses to swing by my office to check for any runs going out.

Just so we are clear, I am now wedged, in a corner, between two pieces of office furniture, by my neck, scrambling for purchase with my knees, gasping for breath, so that I don't manage to decapitate myself with my own desk, with a 275 lb man standing at my door, asking "Uhhh, so do you, like, have any packages going out?"

The only thing that got me through that whole situation was telling myself that while I did embarrass myself horribly, I looked really hot while doing it.

And that, my friends, is the highest level of conceited that you can get.

Worrying about Weird Habits

Does anyone else in the world keep a list of specific words that they really like? I think I may be unique (read: weird) in this regard, but certain words just feel very right when I say them. This is why sometimes when you are around me, if I have need of an exclamation or can't think of a proper response, I may just say a completely unrelated word.

The list as it stands today: ocean, recumbent, monkey, draconian, pineapple, dwarven (which isn't technically a word, but whatever), tethered, clever, hijinks, and specious (and its near false-cognate species).

I can find no common thread amongst the words, except for the tendency for the "hard K" sound to show up somewhere within.

The sad thing about this is that I usually keep the list on hand to make sure that I don't overuse the words too much in writing or conversation, because they usually stand out to a large degree. I find nothing in the universe more socially awkward than when someone says "Wow, you really use _______ a lot, don't you?" It stabs directly into the heart of my fear of being a dilettante language poseur. After that I feel like at any moment they might demand my preferred-patron library card and rip it to a thousand pieces in front of my face.

Luckily the current list has a lot of nouns in it, which means I have less to worry about. It's hard to jam a noun into everyday conversation, with the glaring exception of "Monkey," which is my universal exclamation that takes the place of a normal person's "Dammit." Which is always an awkward phrase to get past, in any situation, believe you me.

Eh, but I can't worry about all this too much. It's all a part of the rich tapestry that is my psyche. Mmm, tapestry. I like the sound of that word too. It's going on the list, by God.

Yeah, it's about Harry Potter. Leave me alone.

Oh man, just skip over this post right now, because I'm about to slide into geekland so fast, you might spontaneously develop a pocket-protector just by reading it.

So the new Harry Potter comes out first thing Saturday morning. I am ridiculously excited about this prospect. A 23 year-old should not be this into what basically is a children's phenomenon. And yet, here we are, wondering if I know any small children that I could borrow so I would have a legitimate excuse to get the book at midnight like the rest of the crazies. (Answer: No, I have not fallen that far. Yet. Also, I don't know any small children. (Apparently Frank doesn't count.))

I'm sure I've gone over this before, but I'm too lazy to look it up. Harry Potter books are the literary equivalent of crack cocaine. Probably not good for you in the long run, but absolutely impossible to stop once started. There are a few authors in the world that ruin me. Basically, I am so easily sucked into their prose that once I start, everything else in the world gets put on hold (up to and including: sleep, bathing, work, family, friends, and bodily injuries needing immediate medical attention) until I get finished. The two worst offenders of this are Orson Scott Card and JK Rowling. Honorable mentions go to Tolkien, Douglas Adams (which isn't too bad because there are only about 6 books in that whole group and they're all short), and Steven King (which is a million times worse, because there are 2000 books and they're all over-long and not that great.).

It's hard to explain the Harry Potter obsession, except to say that Rowling draws out very convincing characters. There are three things I am a sucker for in literature: Good characterization, a very well mapped universe, and a gripping plot. To explain further

• Characterization: This is where Card and Rowling always get me, by creating very real and accessible characters, enough so that you actively care about people that exist in a book. Card does this effortlessly and is great at tossing in compelling bit characters only to grind them to dust 10 pages later. Rowling builds up characters slowly and inexorably so that by the time you're 5 or 6 books in, you've got serious emotional ties to everyone in the plot. The sign that you're too into a fictional story: when you hear that a major character is going to die in the next book you have severe emotional reactions discussing the possibilities. (Aside [SPOILER]: I swear to God, if she kills off Lupin, I will be useless for weeks. Peter has a silver hand. Lupin is a werewolf. You have no idea how much pain these facts cause me daily. It's like the most protracted telegraphed punch ever.)
• Immersive Universe: This one is interesting, because I forgive a lot of bad stuff if you're at least consistent across the board. I love when people make up an entire ruleset and go with it. Rowling and her hidden magical side to the world. Tolkien and his complete exhaustive history of Middle Earth(there are actual languages involved). Terry Pratchett and his Discworld mythos. Also included, the craptacular Star Wars novelizations, of which I have read all, just because there's such a convincing background to it all. I don't know exactly why I find this so compelling, but attention to detail and expansiveness is a huge turn on to me (In a literature sense. God.).
• Nice Plot: This is the cop out one, but if you've got a good story to tell and can do it without even giving me the chance to lose interest, you win.

All that to say that Harry Potter has them all down, in spades. Which is why I'm hooked.

Also, I will be completely holed up once the weekend begins and will not come out until I am finished, because I really don't want any portion of the book to be spoiled for me. I still have flashbacks to how close I came to missing out on Book 5. An all-purpose bit of advice for everyone: If you do not want the ending of the most popular kid's book in the world ruined for you, do not work in a summer camp with 8 million children who have already had an extra week to read it before you. This time since I'm relatively a hermit anyways I should be fine, but will take no chances.

And I think I've pretty much maxed out my unattractiveness factor at this point. We'll leave the geekdom right there.

Would it help my sex appeal if I talked about sports for a bit? How about that Home-Run Derby, eh? I am told by Jim that it was quite the display of manly ruggedness.

Yeah, okay, I'll stop.

They call me Gimp Eyed Joe

My left eye is becoming non-functional. Apparently some time during the dead of night I was attacked by an unknown number of malcontent insect elements. Possibly a lone agent acting independently, or a whole gang out for no good, but in either case, I have a nice bump on my goddamn eyelid that is swelling larger and larger by the minute.

Everything was fine until I got in the shower, but hot water apparently angers the offending bump more than anything else in the world. I can only manage the half-open look at all times now and it looks like I was on the losing end of a bar fight (with an insect). It also throws off my depth perception something fierce, which is no good at all for me, since I'm already so prone to running in to everything. So far today I have misjudged: Two doorframes, a server casing, and the corner of the vending machine in the break room. Which shouldn't even be possible because the vending machine is in a far corner that I never even go near.

Also, have you ever had a time in your life when it hurt to blink? Suddenly you are hyper-aware of how many times a day you do it (hint: all the freaking time) and you actively start trying to blink less. Which just makes it worse, because thinking about not blinking just makes you want to blink more, and then your eyes get all scratchy and start to water and blinkblinkblink owww.

Repeat that over and over every 45 seconds for at least 2 hours. This is where I am coming from today. It's not a pretty view. And it lacks proper depth.

Transition Shopping

Once I hit the end of the summer, I go into full transition mode. I'll be moving apartments, and most likely roommates, and closing up a lot of loose ends on a bunch of things. And in order not to be caught completely unawares (such as last time when I was graduating in 4 days time and running around the streets of Dallas yelling out "Anyone have any apartments open?" while flailing my arms wildly) I've put in many pre-moving steps to make the transition peaceful and less coup-friendly.

Already many of the steps are in motion, a full three months ahead of time. The first major one of these was my great furniture expedition on Saturday. I have expounded on it many times, but I live much like a vagrant in my current setup. A 15 year old couch, a clashing 4 year old futon, and several plastic-y type round chairs make up my entire decor, and it almost hurts to look at them all at once.

So, in honor of my planning on living an adult life, we went in search of an adult furniture set, ie. one that matched, and contained either the word settee or ottoman. I was hoping for some sort of layaway plan, so I could have it purchased ahead of time and then delivered in one fell moving swoop, so as to minimize my backbreaking labor.

Sadly, the concept of furniture exists in an entirely unique world. First off, it has its own district in Dallas. Frank and I had adapted the Simpsons joke on hammocks earlier in the day:

Frank: "You're looking for furniture? You could try the Furniture Emporium, on 7th. Or Furniture Warehouse, also on 7th. Or Furnitures R Us, right in the same place."
Jason: "Oh right, the Furniture District! Hahahaha."

But....seriously.

Anyways, apparently Frank's house is right in the middle of said district, and we hit it hard and hit it fast. Furniture world is not like regular world. For one, everything there looks like it either came from the 1800's, or an alternate future reality where everything went horribly wrong somewhere around the Art Deco Period. There were things I loved, and things I hated, but mostly it left me just scratching my head.

Because I have paid, maybe in grand total, 300 dollars American for every piece of furniture in my apartment. And that's including the hideous shag area rug and fur curtains in the computation. In these places $300.00 for a 2X2 ottoman covered in a zebra pattern is de rigueur. The entire concept is just outside my grasp, and leaves me saying things like "Well, 1,200 dollars isn't that much for three pieces..." which is as antithetical to the basic Jason credo as you can get.

We also ventured in to a "warehouse sale" wherein scads of people climbed over each other to get the best deals on the most eclectic selection of items imaginable in, strangely enough, a warehouse. This place was no where near my element, partly because of the scads of peoples but more particularly because this sale was unique. Witness our salesperson:

Vance: You see that price? You forget that. You put it out your mind. You make us a offer and we go from that [sic times infinity].

Sadly, this was also where I found my dream furniture, a four piece set that included a sofa, settee, armchair and ottoman and was truly the most hideous spectacle of furniture I've ever witnessed. It was one of those cases where something transcends badness so completely that it's just perfect. I can find no representation of this in visual form (why didn't I bring a camera?!) but basically take this and cross it with this, paint the entire thing a dark maroon/purple and then multiply the badness by about 1500 and you come close to the look I'm going for. I wanted it so badly, I could taste what it would be like to own it. (It tasted leathery and delicious and a little smoky.) But I fear haggling more than anything else in the world and probably would have been unable to keep my poker face up about how much I wanted it and wound up paying 50% above manufacturer's retail.

So I'm no closer to any resolution than before I started, but now I have a profound fear of poorly lit warehouses, patterned fabrics, and fainting couches. Which is something, I guess. I'll keep you updated as we move forward.

Decadence in Books

Alternate Title: Amazon knows where you live.

There are a lot of ways in which I waste all my hard earned money. I eat out far more than I ever should, I buy the expensive kind of sandwich bread, and often times I will buy new socks just so I don't have to wash the old ones in the middle of a week.

But of all these different ways of throwing money out the window, the one that I think is the most frivolous and insanely heady is buying books at or near suggested retail price. I mean, in general, I live at Half-Price Books, a place that is built like the warehouse in my own personal heaven, where you can get a good paperback for under a dollar and a good condition hardback with change back from your five. But there is something inherently delicious and wastefully adult about spending full price for a first run book. It makes the reading that much more potent, when you can actually calculate the market value of each page as it goes by.

More often than not, when I do go the full price route, I do it through Amazon because the abstraction on the price is much greater from the privacy of my own home. Going into a Borders and actually watching the cashier ring up a stack of books in front of my face is more than I can handle, fiscally. My rationalization muscles start kicking in, and I'm hard-pressed not to grab the books out of their hands and run back to the shelves and out the door to the nearest discount shopping center. On Amazon, the numbers are cute and manageable, and when I save 60 cents by buying two Orson Scott Card books on the same order, it satisfies the bargain shopper within, despite the fact that it's 60 goddamn cents.

Seriously, Amazon is the master of direct marketing. To like, the deepest portion of my soul. It truly knows who I am. Since I am a slave to Firefox and its magical search bar, I use the Amazon engine as the most common search, besides Google. So the Amazon master computer has stored a seemingly endless account of things that interest me and uses that opening personalized front page to lure me in to exactly what I've been most recently thinking about. It's a little scary that a website knows my tastes better than the majority of my family members.

And I haven't even gone in to their most deadly weapon in their arsenal - the direct email. It is very sparingly used, at least on me, but it has the pin-point precision of a sniper rifle shot to the head in getting me to buy things. (Not that a shot to the head gets me to buy things. I think that metaphor wound up a strange place.) I have gotten a grand total of four of these emails in my life, and every single time I ended up buying the book that it was announcing. Granted, I would have bought these books anyway, but the emails a.) always came the week immediately before the books were actually released so I would have it on the first day available, and b.) link to the major publication reviews of the book, which I'm gonna have to read anyways, which then feeds into my immediate need to buy the book, and then, why not just order it now, save yourself the trouble of putting on pants and driving to the bookstore and yes Amazon, you love Amazon, Amazon rules all.

Man, this is a little depressing, how easily I become a member of a horde.

So anyways, I go through all of that to say that I ordered a couple of books on Thursday around midnight from The Website That I Will No Longer Refer to by Name Because I've Already Said it 47 Times in This Entry (TWTIWNLRNBIAS47TITE). And I chose the free-shipping option, because that's yet another one of those things that makes me feel completely frugal and smart for choosing TWTIWNLRNBIAS47TITE, expecting the books to show up in about a week or so. No big rush, I'm still trying to get through the last 400 pages of Cryptonomicon again. I put LaSister on alert, though, that the UPS guy might be coming by sometime soon.

Fast forward to Sunday. I'm pretending to clean up the apartment and generally being a layabout when I remember that when Mike was over on Saturday night, he had mentioned that my Gameboy was laying up against the patio door. Since I had lost the Gameboy several months previous, I went to retrieve it. I pulled aside the curtains and sure enough, there it was. But more importantly, out on the patio was a little box. A little box with the distinctive TWTIWNLRNBIAS47TITE logo on it.

I retrieve the package, and it contains both books that I had ordered less than 72 hours beforehand. It was at that point that I decided that not only did TWTIWNLRNBIAS47TITE know exactly where I lived, they had it nailed down to the point that they could air drop books directly into an 8X8 patio at a moment's notice.

This revelation was immediately followed by another: That I was probably overreacting. It's much more likely that in the dead of night an Amazon ninja secretly scaled the walls of my apartment complex to deliver my books as silently and efficiently as possible.

And that? Is some good customer service.

I'll Thetan You!

My one word review of the Tom Cruise extravaganza, War of the Worlds:

LAME

Thanks for stopping by.

Buying in Bulk and Hipsters

Okay, so I may have gone overboard on the grocery shopping over the holiday weekend. Because now that we're back in the cold reality of the workweek I'm suddenly having to deal with finishing off roughly 5 square feet of meat products that are occupying all the empty space in my refrigerator, and it's killing me.

I am a man of a delicate constitution, as you may be aware, and cramming myself full of a variety of meat based products is just not agreeable to my waif-like nature. But damn if I'm about to let all that food go to waste. The lesson has been well learned, however. We should never buy in bulk - there's a reason we are not a member of a warehouse club and it's not necessarily because they are tacky.

Plus, I'm pretty sure that polish sausage falls outside the realm of the healthy prongs of the master plan for avoiding an untimely death.

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

On another note, I cannot get the song A Little Respect, by Erasure out of my head. I wander throughout Dallas, mumbling it under my breath. My head bobs unconsciously to its catchy tune. When I believe I am alone I sometimes do a little dance.

I used to think that episode of Scrubs was just a delightful joke, but now I know the hideous truth - the song will never leave me. On my deathbed, I will be all "Give a liiiittle reeespect, tooo--ooo--ooo meeeeee"...

This is a nice segue to update everyone on how dependent I have grown on my iPod. Because seriously. I was trying to run the numbers to give an estimate on how much time I spend with it on my person, and realized that it would just be easier to calculate the time that I didn't have it with me. Music at your fingertips at any given second? In a device that is smaller and weighs less than the pack of gum sitting next to it in my pocket? For the love of God.

Although more and more I feel very much the Hipster That Guy whenever I wear it in public. I'm starting to notice the glances now. The narrowed eyes whenever they see the white wires come out. I've become a symbol of conformity. People with wild hair and piercings look down on me with scorn. I've bought into The Man's system.

A nice guy explained it best to me last week: "I'm not saying that everyone who has an iPod is an asshole. But every asshole that I've met has an iPod."

It's one of those 'all squares are rectangles but not all rectangles are squares' sort of thing, which I can completely understand (since I related it to geometry, naturally) but makes me very wary. What if I really am a hipster asshole and just don't realize it? I mean, you know that hipster assholes don't know that's what they are - it's part of what makes them assholes.

The entire enterprise makes me uneasy. And all because of a little tiny white box, that I love ever so much. Sigh. I will have to be on my guard for any hipster tendencies. (Oh crap. Double sigh.)

Just...Can't...Stop...Posting...

The most saddest of all my referral logs today?

Search for: "talking fast is a speech problem"

Way to bring me down, anonymous web searcher.

Master of Contradiction

I went ahead and finished off the health rant below, even though I knew the next thing I wrote would seemingly completely invalidate it. I have many layers of contradiction going on within me at all times. And I state right now that I am still within my rights under the prongs of my health plan.

Anyways, I spend the entire 4th of July weekend in an orgy of unhealthy food consumption. Seriously, I got up at 11:00 on Saturday and started cooking, and stopped eating at roughly 10:00pm on Monday. There were hamburgers, chicken wings, bratwurst, baked beans, corn on the cob, an entire 2 lb bag of cherries, and all manner of desserts that I tore through as though my life depended on it. It was the first holiday weekend I've spent alone in recent memory, and it was entirely worth it. Solitude, TV, and piles of food was the only thing that could have possibly worked for me and it was flawless.

Other points of note: I did not make it to any of the movies that I had planned on, which was shocking as I had a 4 movie rotation that I had carefully fine-tuned over the course of the week previous. But oh well. I did, however, go see Howl's Moving Castle.

Certain things I learned on this viewing: The Inwood Theatre is still creepy, but slightly less so with new seats. The employees there really want to get you out as soon as possible, as was evidenced by the fact that they shut off the projector 12 seconds into the closing credits. Small children are still the bane of my existence.

The movie was good, but not as good as usual. Miyazaki movies are held to a greater standard because they're always awesome. This movie was not awesome. Well, it was sort of, in that I liked all the characters and it was, as always, very well animated and the right amount of creepy/charming. But more importantly, large portions, particularly the ending, didn't make a damn bit of sense. Which is usually okay in these sorts of movies (Lord knows I didn't get all that was going on in Spirited Away) but in this one it was more that the parts were glossed over, rather than I didn't get them.

Also. For the love of little green apples, the title character was the gayest thing I've seen outside of a Pride parade or an Anthony Fedorov fan club. I mean, come on. Throughout the entire movie he was wearing tight black pants, billowy v-neck cut blouses, and dangly earrings. He also had a tendency to suddenly come onscreen and pause dramatically (read: strike a particularly gay pose) and/or put his hand on his hip in a jaunty (read: homosexual) manner. Include in the fact that he also threatened suicide after he got a bad dye job, and really, there are no conclusions left.

But whatever. I enjoyed it muchly. Not as much as, say, Spirited Away or Princess Mononoke, but still more than your average movie. Mostly it made me want to go pick up a copy of both of those movies, which is always a good impulse and one I plan on fufilling later on today.

And that was the grand sum of my weekend, if you include a whole bunch of World of Warcraft and the viewing of the entire first season of The OC for the 90th time. Good times.

Longwinded Health Post

So the last time I went home to visit my parents, my mom sat me down to have a little discussion.

Mom: Jason, you are going to have a heart attack by the time you hit 50. [pause] ...Well, I'm glad we had this nice chat. I need to go switch out the laundry.

I managed to tease out a bit more information from her over the course of the rest of the visit. Primarily that every single male member of my father's side of the family has had some sort of serious heart trouble by age 50 going back at least three generations. And this will no doubt be handed down to me, thus is the luck of Jason that we have all witnessed.

This news is not cool.

Because, I am not healthy. I mean, on a sliding scale of every person I know, I'm probably last in the line in terms of eating right. Heath food is just a nebulous concept out in the world to me. Something that other people speak about, like heterosexuality, or the enjoyment of Everybody Loves Raymond. I down Coke, Pixi Sticks, and pie as a common dinner meal. I have at least one cake available for eating in my apartment at all times. It's against the norm when I don't have at least one meal of fast food per day.

In general, I think nature supports me in this endeavor because no matter how much bad food I eat, I stay the exact same size. Even when I was downing protein shakes and working out 3 hours a day, I gained a grand total of 7 pounds. My weight is a natural constant, and eating healthily would just be spitting in the face of the grand design of things.

Or so I manage to rationalize. Whatever keeps me in sugars and tasty high caloric content.

Compounding this is the relatively new fact that with my day job firmly in place as Guy Who Sits Around Staring at a Computer Screen for Eight Hours a Day, sedentary is the new best adjective to describe me. As was made painfully obvious this weekend when I got winded again carrying the groceries from my truck to my apartment.

And now my mother foretells my doom - I am predisposed to having heart problems at an early age and she acknowledges my universal bad luck that if something can go wrong with me, it probably will. Perhaps I should have checked up on this preexisting health condition before I embarked on my quest to eat at McDonalds at least once every 54 hours.

In any case, now I'm all weirded out and certain that everytime I have heart burn it is the onset of a cardiac episode. Which is fun for everyone else, I am sure. LaSister has perfected the look of put upon/mild amusement/skepticism to adopt the second I go flailing through the living room, clutching my chest and running for the aspirin. We've taken to leaving a bottle of Rolaids prominently displayed on the kitchen counter to remind me to go for the obvious solution first.

Because I'm already a very nervous person. As alluded to above, I am one of the few 23 year-olds who needs to keep a bottle of Rolaids on hand at all times. Very easily stressed, with poor eating habits is a difficult but integral part of my life. When you throw in this whole malfunctioning heart thing into the mix, I become a ticking time-bomb of neuroses, actively checking the internet to see if they sell those little chest-paddle-shocker things to the public and asking LaSister if her First Aid training includes all manner of life saving, including that thing where you ninja chop people on the chest to get their heart going again (her response: eye roll).

So in an effort to cut down on my chances of freaking out and calling the paramedics after I have one too many cupcakes for dessert at some point in the next two weeks, we have implemented Project Get Jason In Mild Shape.

Project Get Jason In Mild Shape, is very simplistic in nature, because damn if I'm going to put forth any real effort into additional work. I'm tired when I get home, by God. There are three prongs to the projected plan of attack:

• Prong One: Better eating. This is the least effective prong, because I hate to compromise on food. I have to make detailed guidelines with many provision, like some sort of long drawn out union contract. The guidelines are: a) Real Fast Food may only be eaten in two meals per five day work week, b) At least one meal per week must actually be healthy, and c) "Cake and Coke" can no longer be considered a dinner meal.
• Prong Two: Active Lifestyle. Okay, this prong isn't effective either, but it's pretty straightforward. All current lifestyle choices are fine, no matter how video game oriented they are, but at least 30 minutes per day must be added that include a medium to high level of physical activity. That level will be scaled with time, depending on how winded I am as the weeks go on. Additionally and superficially, I would like to have my abs back.
• Prong Three: Being Less of a Spaz. The goal here is to be much more calm and centered and less clumsy and dramatic. There are no objectives to detail, other than "don't freak out, and work on your balance." I like to think this prong has a high chance for success, but I'm really just deluding myself. Heh. Less clumsy.

This is a foolproof plan, no? I'd like to see a heart attack beat this system! Actually, I wouldn't, which is why it's being implemented, but you get my drift. I am now taking bets to see how long I keep this up. For right now, I'm shooting on getting all the way through July, but I promise nothing, as I can already envision a night within the week where I'm sitting at my computer playing Warcraft, eating cake and drinking Coke all the night through.

But I feel better that it's at least all written out. Go me!