Little Blue Pills of Paranoia

As a result of the Allergy Attack that Destroyed Tokyo, I was put on some ridiculously expensive pills that are supposed to build up my immune system to make sure that this sort of thing doesn't happen again.

I have two pills that I'm supposed to take each day. A cute yellowish one for the mornings, and a soothing blue one for at night. Each one is roughly the size of a medium kiwi fruit, only less furry. Theoretically the yellow one is supposed to keep you functional during the day, and the blue one helps you sleep at night. (This is totally not the case, but we'll get to that.)

Originally this was supposed to be a 10 day regimen of drugs (that cost about as much as my daily food allowance), but a follow-up call from the doctor has extended it to a full thirty days. Which I'm not sure if I'm going to make it through, since one of the side effects (besides the financially crippling one. $5 dollars a day. For pills. Jesus.) is extreme paranoia.

Well, Blue Pill Paranoia. The yellow ones are great. Sure, at first they turned me into a walking zombie, where my arms didn't really seem to belong to my body and I would constantly lose my train of thought and start staring off into space. And they caused me to laugh uncontrollably at things that weren't even remotely funny. We're talking hideous outbursts of geek laughter, complete with the little snort and everything. In front of people I didn't even know. Like:

Coworker: "Yeah, so long day, huh?"
Jason: "HAHAHAHA *snort*!".

Remember when I said I don't get embarrassed anymore? I was wrong. But eventually my body got used to the dosage, and now everything is great. I love my little yellow friend.

But those blue guys. Okay, when I first started taking them, I had just finished that book I was reading (House of Leaves. Very good. Surprisingly scary, considering.). That first night I had this really creepy dream and woke up in the middle of the night completely convinced that there was something horrible in my room, and that I just couldn't see it yet. That maybe it was in the closet, or under the bed, or *gasp* invisible. So I did what any self-respecting 24 year-old would do - piled all my pillows up around me and hid under the covers shivering for half an hour until I fell back to sleep.

When the alarm went off in the morning, I chalked the entire thing up to that dumb book and my lack of sleep over the weekend and went on with my day.

Only when I went to bed that night, I woke up about 45 minutes later absolutely convinced that I had just heard my patio door open, and that there were robbers in my house, right at that very moment. And that they were totally going to steal all of my stuff. But what if they tried to come in my room, I would need some sort of weapon, but I don't have anything laying around that I could use, maybe the lamp, but it's too big, actually you know maybe I should just run over and lock the door, then I could hear whenever they were trying to get in, and I could work on the whole weapon issue later.

So I actually got up out of bed, snuck over to the door, locked it, and again huddled under my covers until I fell asleep.

The next morning I realized that this might represent a pattern. And sure enough, I am now Crazy McParanoid every night now, thanks to my loverly new sleep-time drugs. Last night I was convinced that there was something else breathing in my room. Turned out it was the fan on my computer.

Of course, rampant paranoia is not listed as one of the known side-effects on the container, so maybe I'm just losing my mind, and I'm blaming the pills so I won't have to deal with my sudden decline into insanity. Either way, I would stay away from my house late at night for a while, just so you don't step in any of the crazy.

From the Learn Something New Every Day Pile

Apparently in my office, if you are thin you had better not make any self-deprecating jokes when donuts are present. Or really, any comment at all. That kind of shit just does not fly. Or so I have learned.

So I walk into the break room. Someone has kindly brought donuts in for the office. I do love me some donuts, but I really never eat breakfast (does not agree with me at all) so I'm not so much jonesing for one right at this moment.

Coworker: Hey Jason. You want a donut? They're really good.
Jason: Mmm, donuts.
Coworker: Yeah, they're horrible for me, but screw it, it's Friday.
Jason: Ha. Yeah, I don't know, I really should lay off all the sugar. It's all I eat lately. 75% of my body mass is probably like, actual cake frosting.
Coworker: (actually offended) Whatever, you're thin. Don't give me that, just have a donut.
Jason: Uhh. Yeah, okay?
Coworker: I...just don't pretend like it's some huge struggle for you. (flounces off)

WTF?

No, seriously. What the fuck is that? I am I supposed to apologize because I'm thin? It's not even like I said it would make me fat, (which, by the way, is something that I do say too often). I just said I need to lay off the sugar. A oh-woe-is-me/make-jason-fat comment I could maybe see taking offense to (but even then whatever, I have a poor body image, deal with it), but an offhand remark that maybe I should eat healthier?

Do you remotely know me, or what I eat? Should I be apologizing for some lucky metabolism? I, in fact, really do need to lay off the sweets. For dinner last night I had 4 mini Snickers bars, half a bag of sour gummi worms, and a DrPepper. Yeah, okay, it was a lame joke, but that's no reason to go all morally offended about it. How's about we make a deal? I'll stop trying to maintain polite conversation and you stop projecting your hostile food issues onto others?

Seriously, that put me in such a bad mood all morning long. This is exactly why I do not talk to people.

Wherein I Drop Some Science on Y'all

I am about to irrevocably prove the existence of God.

And I only need a few quick facts. You might want to back up a little.

(Note: This is totally serious. I even did research. On the internet. Y'all's minds? Are about to be blown away.)

1. FACT: Nickelback is an insanely popular band.
   
   SUPPORT:
   
   • Their 2001 album Silver Side Up tallied total American sales of over 6 million albums sold. (source)
     
   • Their latest album released in October of 2005 made its debut at #1 on the Billboard Top 200, and has remained on the charts for 49 consecutive weeks. Currently it is ranked #8 in sales this week. Over 3 million units have been sold since release. (source)
     
   • Touring trade publication Pollstar recently revealed that Nickelback ranked 3rd behind only U2 and Bon Jovi in worldwide ticket sales for the first quarter of 2006. (source)
     
     
2. FACT: Nickelback sucks. Possibly more so than any band in the history of the world.
   
   SUPPORT:
   
   • They only have one song, which they have somehow managed to pass off a #1 single at least twice. (source)
   • Their lead singer looks like he's trying out for a local theatre production of Jesus Christ Superstar. (source)
     
   • Their new popular single Far Away is the exact same song as those other two #1 singles, except it wants to pretend to be sad. (source, warning: may cause painful irritation to the ears)
     
   • No seriously, it's the EXACT SAME GODDAMN SONG.
     
     
3. FACT: The only way they could possibly be this famous and popular is due to an elaborate prank played on me by God.
   
   SUPPORT:
   
   • I don't care how good one song purports to be, there is no way that it can be recycled 3 different times into months and months of airplay on the radio, loved by millions and millions of crazed teenage girls, adapted into really creepy fan videos and still be popular.
   • No other large scale conspiracy theory is pervasive enough to account for their complete saturation. Subliminal messages only get you so far. Plus I listened really closely to that song(s) as long as I could (better than 45 seconds) and I totally didn't hear any hidden messages.
   • If God does exist, you know he has to have a sense of humor. I mean, he obviously likes to cause humiliation at my expense.
     
     
4. ONLY AVAILABLE CONCLUSION: Nickelback's continued success can only be explained by the existence of a God (with a sick sense of humor).(Or possibly an angry and vengeful God who is using Nickelback to punish me. Either way, God = exists.)
   

I'll just let that sink in. I'm sure you have some reevaluating to do with your life.

Book Meme (Because You Care)

Yay, a book meme! The world shall flock to my blog, and cleave to my words.

... Okay fine, you're allowed to skip this one.

(Gleefully picked up from 50 Books, which is a wonderful place to visit, full of talking about books all the time. I am so jealous.)

1. A book that changed your life.
Changed my life is such a dramatic sounding turn of phrase. But to be equally dramatic, Tim O'Brian's The Things They Carried probably wins the title for book that has most changed my outlook on life, not to mention how I view stories and words in general, so I think it gets first mention. Everyone in the world needs to read this book, at least twice. So good and real and honest.

2. A book you've read more than once.
Considering I reread pretty much anything I even remotely like, we could be here for a while. In terms of most read, I would say that I've read Ender's Game the most times physically (very conservatively, at least 20 full read-thrus). It's a book that I can practically inhale in a day, and can't stop reading until it's done.

3. A book you'd want on a desert island.
Gosh. Well it would have to be something substantial, and really good. And it would need to stand up to multiple readings without getting old. And it would need to be able to serve at least some purpose in the wild. I'm sort of torn just thinking about it. In the end I think I would have to go with either Cryptonomicon by Neil Stephenson, or The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon, because both are pretty long, both are amazingly good and have plenty of repeatability. I'd probably perfer Amazing Adventures more at first (best book ever), but Cryptonomicon has so much more variety it might last longer. Plus if you had to burn it for warmth, it's like 1000 pages long. That has to be a consideration.

4. A book that made you giddy.
The first time I read Me Talk Pretty One Day, I laughed so hard that I was actually lightheaded and almost fell down due to a lack of oxygen to the brain. I think that counts. David Sedaris = Love.

5. A book you wish had been written.
This question boggles my fragile little mind. Umm, I wish that Douglas Adams had actually finished up the novel in Salmon of Doubt because the world can most certainly do with a little more Douglas Adams in it.

6. A book that wracked you with sobs.
Just because it is most recently on my mind, The Time Traveler's Wife left me sobbing like an infant, and I didn't even like the characters involved. That takes some skill, believe you me. What can I say, I'm a sap for love stories that have fantastic science fiction elements woven directly into their structure. That book tore me to pieces.

7. A book you wish had never been written.
You're allowed to be dumb and petty in an internet meme, right? Because I hate hate hate hate The Sound and The Fury. Like, irrational, deep-seated, utter loathing that defies all reason, time, and space. I have no problem whatsoever in wishing it off the face of the Earth. I know that makes me both shallow and illiterate, Faulkner is the best writer of the 20th century, but whatever. HATE.

8. A book you are currently reading.
House of Leaves, Mark Danielewski. So weird. But good. As much as I hate the whole experiment-in-semiotics thing he has going on, the story he's working off of is very compelling. And say what you will, but the boy can write. God, the footnotes, though. Save me from the footnotes.

9. A book you've been meaning to read.
In my latest Amazon ordering frenzy (damn them and their free super saver shipping that basically requires me to spend at least $25 every time) I finally broke down and picked up the box set of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials Trilogy, which I have heard nothing but great things about. However this House of Leaves book sucks up so much time (footnotes!) I don't know when I'm ever going to actually bust them out.

10. Tag 10.
10? Are you serious? I'm not entirely sure I know 10 people who have read a book in the past two years, let alone would complete a book meme on the internet. Anyways, if you read this and have ever read a book, consider yourself tagged.

How I Spent my Boss's Summer Vacation

So where have I been, young man?

I have been sick on multiple, brain-numbing levels. Shorthanded: Horrible allergy attack knocked me on my ass for approximately 9 days. But no one likes a shorthanded story when the long version has inappropriate nudity and making a fool of Jason. So let's press onwards!

Two weeks ago, my boss went on annual summer vacation, leaving the running of the office up to me. Apparently the resulting stress led to the breakdown of my entire immune system so thorough that my body was like France in the face of an oncoming German army. (Shockingly Obvious Note #1: Jason performs poorly under stress!) What would normally be just a bad day or two of allergies and sneezing instead became the hostile occupation and destruction of my very being.

Most of the following, with the exception of Friday, (which stands out very prominently in my mind for some reason) is pulled together from conjecture and vague recollections of things that I sort of remember happening, but might actually have been very gripping hallucinations.

Certain facts I am aware of: early on in the process, I was left completely deaf in my right ear, due to some sort of fluid and/or swelling of my already large head. I want to say it was sometime around Saturday or Sunday, because by Monday I was sprawled out on the couch practically drooling from the level of antihistamines, allergen blockers, and assorted other cocktail-like shiny pills running through my bloodstream.

See, the normal level of drugs that I use to combat an allergy attack were woefully underpowered for this one, and despite how smart it seemed at the time, tripling the number of brands I was taking at once did very little in terms of fixing my outlook on life. (Shockingly Obvious Note #2: Jason lacks rational decision-making skills in the face of... well anything really.)

I made it through work on Tuesday and Wednesday, although I remember basically nothing that happened in that span, except for these really lucid fever-dream type recollections of pretending to be one of the X-Men with Frank (Less Obvious But Much More Shocking Note #1: This would later turn out to be all-too horribly real).

Thursday was when everything started falling apart, as not only was I deaf in one ear, I started losing hearing in the other ear and my voice began to mimic that of a 5 pack-a-day smoker with walking-pneumonia. I made it through work mostly by leaning manfully against large solid objects, sneezing on said objects, and saying "What?!" a whole lot. Included at no extra cost: the constant feeling that my head was so top-heavy that I was going to tip over like a reverse Weeble, a lack of appetite so intense that lunch consisted of 4 gummi bears and a glass of iced tea, and the continuous watering of my eyes at all times, so it appeared I had been watching the endings of Bambi, Titanic, and Old Yeller on a loop.

Came home at 6:00, collapse on the couch and am asleep by 9:00. Figured I must be getting over the hump, as there was no where to go but up from there.

(We now witness a tense shift, as I can actually remember Friday, so we move into the present tense. Marvel at my mastery over the English language.)

Friday morning comes, and along with it the true definition of rock bottom. Cannot hear anything beyond vague thumping noises, head is ready to split directly down the middle, and I spend the first 3 consecutive minutes of my day doing nothing but sneezing. Decide to call in sick to work and try a doctor. Doctor cannot schedule me an appointment for that day, but I can come in "as a walk-in" and should be able to get some face time at some point. Nurse neglects to mention that "some point" technically counts the year 2009 as "a point."

I spend, without exaggeration in the slightest, 5 hours in the grungiest doctor's waiting room I have ever seen. The bathroom reminds me of a gas station road stop, and not in a good way. There are, with slight exaggeration, 9 million tiny children running around, most of whom are wildly sick and spewing germs like a sprinkler system on a lawn (with me as a sneezing blade of grass.) By the time I make it into an actual examination room, I'm pretty sure death is a viable option.

Nurse comes in to do one of those tiny blood tests to determine if the allergies have yet reached the poisoned-blood-stream level of encroachment yet. She pricks my finger, and yet cannot get enough blood. Tries another finger, still not quite enough. Secondary nurse comes by, stabs my thumb and proceeds to try and milk it for every ounce of blood available.

To recap: By the end of this round of examinations, I am now: deaf, sneezing, and crying, with a splitting headache, three fingers throbbing and drained of blood, and am no doubt the latest incubator of child-ebola from the waiting room. Flawless.

Doctor comes in, explains that I do not have an infection, but instead am experiencing one of the most severe allergic episodes she has seen outside of a food allergy, or big cat mauling. Asks if I have been under much stress lately. After determining what she said via sign language/charades, I try to laugh, but instead go into another sneezing fit.

The best course of action is determined to be an allergy shot which cost approximately as much as my monthly food bill, but is not covered by my health care, as it is not "physically necessary." Apparently my survival is not physically necessary in the eyes of Aetna, especially when I could take an internal regimen of pills that could clear up the problem in, say, two to three weeks give or take.

Once the sneezing subsides, I fork over a credit card and beg for the shot. Nurse comes in, I roll up my sleeve. She laughs, and asks me to drop my pants and lay on my stomach. I sigh, not because I expected anything less, as God is obviously enjoying this a lot. I properly loosen my pants and attempt to assume the position. However, I misjudge the stepstool next to the examining table and end up tripping over it and crashing (stomach first) onto the table. Table has one of those disposable rolls of paper covering it, and starts spooling out upon my crash, rolling me directly off the table, pants now effectively lost, right along with any dignity that still remained.

Nurse looks over at me, on the ground, half-naked, eyes watering, sneezing, and largely deaf. Through the haze and the blocked ears, I'm able to make out her response to my spectacle: "It's just not your day, is it?"

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

And after all that, I still ended up going into work for an hour that afternoon. Because I am hardcore like that.

Aside: That shot was totally worth not eating for the rest of the month, I feel awesome now. And maybe, just maybe, someday I might get over the crippling embarrassment that was its administration.

And Now It's Official

Just in case it was ever in doubt:

Outcast Genius
65 % Nerd, 52% Geek, 56% Dork

For The Record:

A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.
A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.
A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.
You scored better than half in all three, earning you the title of: Outcast Genius.

Outcast geniuses usually are bright enough to understand what society wants of them, and they just don't care! They are highly intelligent and passionate about the things they know are *truly* important in the world. Typically, this does not include sports, cars or make-up, but it can on occassion (and if it does then they know more than all of their friends combined in that subject).

Outcast geniuses can be very lonely, due to their being outcast from most normal groups and too smart for the room among many other types of dorks and geeks, but they can also be the types to eventually rule the world, ala Bill Gates, the prototypical Outcast Genius.

Congratulations!


Also, you might want to check out some of my other tests if you're interested in any of the following:

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Professional Wrestling

Love & Sexuality

America/Politics

Thanks Again! -- THE NERD? GEEK? OR DORK? TEST

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 99% on nerdiness

You scored higher than 99% on geekosity

You scored higher than 99% on dork points

Link: The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test written by donathos on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

Y'all just back up, okay? Outcast Genius at work over here.

Snakes on My Last Damn Nerve

(Note: That title has nothing to do with this post, it's just the damnable truth.)

I have a secret to confess: When I was nothing but a wee youngling, I absolutely hated my truck. It's true. And this was back in the day before it was the Truck of Malfunction. It was a Truck of Precision in comparison. But oh how I hated it.

Primarily because I could not drive a stick shift to save my life. That's literally 'save my life' by the way - my existence was constantly in peril whenever I would get behind the wheel of that thing. Originally I would only drive it under extreme duress, preferring to instead drive our incredible clunker of a minivan instead, with its propensity for squealing fan belts, a marked lack of air conditioning, and a smell that on a good day ranked somewhere around 'expired milk'. That's how much I loathed the TOP.

On my very first real date with a girl (shut up!) wherein I actually picked her up by myself, drove her places, and then back home, the minivan refused to work on my way to pick her up. Thus with no warning or preparation time, I was required to utilize the TOP to go get her.

At this point in time, I had driven the truck perhaps 4 times, never longer than 5 miles in any direction. And following each of those adventures I had immediately vowed never to get behind the wheel ever again. Said girl's house was at least a 10 minute drive under ideal conditions.

About 15 minutes into the 10 minute drive, I realized that in my nervous state, I was keeping my foot on the gas every time I tried to shift into 4th gear, which is why the TOP was making that horrible noise. I'm not exactly sure when I realized that I was driving with the parking brake on, but I know it was considerably later in the process than either God or man intended.

I arrived at her house 30 minutes later, following three failed passes at trying to find the house on the side of a busy street while worrying endlessly about the transmission not falling out of the bottom of the truck thanks to my ministrations. By this point every single change in my driving caused anywhere between 3 and 7 horrible noises to occur at once.

Once the girl was actually secured, the fun really began. Because now am I not only nervous about driving, I have a date in the car (a girl!) who I am now responsible for when I manage to throw the car into the wrong gear and off a cliff, or what have you. And we're not even going to scratch the surface of my neuroses involving the actual date itself, wherein I am trying to impress a member of the opposite sex while being the single most awkward pubescent thing on the planet at any given moment in time. Suffice it to say that tensions were high.

Once we were back underway, it became readily apparent that I had no concept of the difference between first gear and third gear. For me, they were interchangeable. Every time I would get to a red light, it was akin to a scene from a horror movie. Only instead of a large breasted woman who keeps falling and breaking her heel, it was a car bucking and stalling every 3.5 seconds. The girl in distress would have outpaced me by miles. And the other motorists, they were not exactly understanding about my difficulties. It was like a cadre of disgruntled New York cab drivers had been hand picked to be behind me at every intersection.

By the time we had made it through the drive to the restaurant and back home, my nerves were so shot that I was twitching and shaking right out of my seat, even more pale than normal, which doesn't seem possible, and yet. Plus...well 'sweating' doesn't actually cut it. It was more a complete aura of perspiration surrounding me, accompanied by a stench of automotive failure so strong that I doubt it has ever been recreated.

Considering the tour of near death I subjected her to, I was remarkably impressed by my date's response to the entire thing - she had obviously been through much worse on dates in the past (which frankly may be the saddest part of the entire ordeal). I actually remember nothing of the date itself, except that I think that the movie Titanic was involved somewhere, which I thought was rather apropos, if nothing else.

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

All that to say, I'm very, very close to trading in my beautiful TOM for a brand new used car. And I can hardly bear to part with it, it is now like a physical part of my body. It seems almost ludicrous to think about the old days when I used to fervently wish for its untimely death by explosion, when it had the most amazing A/C unit and brand new everything. Now it has no air conditioning, no gas gauge, and makes loud beeping noises at random intervals for no apparent reason and I love it like it was my own son. Or more to the point, like it was my disowned bastard son who was constantly unemployed, broke, and in trouble with the law. Who I still loved anyway.

God, the similes are failing me today, and hard.

Weird.

Whickety and/or Whack

Frothing rage on a blog? So cliché. But check it anyways, not like you're getting any gems of wit from me not writing. At least this way you can point and laugh at me when I go all off-color and capslock-y and start yelling about old people and assholes (Those two are unrelated, just in case you were overcome with any unfortunate imagery there. Not my fault.)

I've been in this extended bad mood for about 4 days now, and it's getting really ugly. Like, normally I am fine with pretense and smiling insincerely and making peace with imbeciles and all. This week I cannot muster up the energy. So in this story, I'm actually the asshole, but whatever, we are truth-in-reporting here.

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

So when I get into work this morning, I get on the elevator with a woman and this old guy. I hit my floor button, she hits hers. The doors start to close, and the old man reaches over to hit his floor, but hits the ground floor button for some reason. Doors slide open. We both look at the old man, who just goes to settle back against the wall. Doors start to close again, old man realizes that the button he just pushed has gone out, so he hammers it again. Doors reopen.

Okay, this man is old, he's been around for some time, he has to understand how an elevator works, correct? It's not like this is his first trip on one, I am assuming.

So I ask him, "What floor are you looking for?"

Old man gets this ugly, accusing look on his face "I'm trying to get to the third floor, if this elevator wasn't broken!" (Apparently I am now responsible for this broken elevator) He hits the button again, as an example. Doors push open again.

I muster all my available peacemaking powers, "Oh, well I've already pushed the button for three, that's where I'm going, you're good to go."

Old man keeps hitting the first floor button, doors keep opening up. "No, see, I keep hitting the button and the light is going out."

He switches over to the most condescending tone I have ever heard used on someone over the age of 4 "You see, the button lights up when it's going to go to your floor." He hits the first floor button again for emphasis. "Only, it's not working."

We have now been standing in this elevator for about 3 minutes. I grit my teeth. "Sir, that's the button for the ground floor, that button above it that is already lit is for the third. See it has a three next to it."

Old man is now offended. "Don't take that tone with me. I know what I'm doing." He hits the goddamn first floor button again.

I have lost any and all sense of decency that I once possessed. "Stop hitting that button!"

"Don't tell me what to do!" (No, seriously, this actually happened. 'Don't tell me what to do.' This man is at least 70.) He hits it three times in rapid succession.

"Oh my God. Seriously, stop hitting that button."

He fucking sneers at me, and starts holding the button down with his thumb. Have you ever actually wanted to physically punch an old man? Do you know what that feels like? It's not cool.

Finally, the woman on the elevator with us (who has been watching the two of us go at it like a cross between a fascinated scientist observing something under a microscope and a spectator at the front row of a boxing match) comes forward before the old man and myself engage in literal fisticuffs.

"Sir, he's right, if you'll stop hitting that button, we'll go to the right floor."

I'm completely ready for him to turn on her too, like some sort of old-man/jackal that's been surrounded and backed into a corner. Instead, he stops, turns, and smiles sweetly.

"Certainly, my dear," and takes his thumb off the button. (Jason's brain: "AAAAAHHHHH!!!")

He finally steps away from the panel. We arrive at the 3rd floor without further incident.

And because I'm a huge asshole, when the doors open: "Imagine that, the third floor. Who would've guessed?"

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

This week, man, I am telling you. I am not normally like this.

Embarrass-what?

Someone recently mentioned to me in passing that they were really impressed with my lack of clumsiness lately. I was sort of thrown for a second, because I couldn't think of any reason why they would draw that assumption, since I'm just as clumsy as always lately, if not crazily moreso, to the degree that I've been managing to make a public spectacle of myself pretty much on a daily basis.

A quick follow up revealed that I hadn't blogged about any hideous injuries/embarrassments recently, so they just assumed that I had gotten over my inherent qualities of ineptness. (Note: I have not.) I checked and they're right, I haven't written an entry about such ridiculousness in a long time. And then it hit me: the reason I haven't written about being horribly embarrassed lately is because I haven't been embarrassed. I mean, my behavior/mannerisms/tendency to make a fool of myself have not gone down at all, I just don't care anymore.

For instance: At McDonalds on Tuesday, I finish my lunch while reading a book and go to throw away the remains. I pick up my tray one handed, so as to be able to carry my drink at the same time so's I can fulfill my God-given right of as many free refills as I can drink. Unfortunately, the tray is completely unbalanced because half of it is covered by mostly-empty wrappers, french fries, and ketchup and the other half is covered in a 600 page book. This results in me basically flipping the entire tray of crap across the room catapult-style, including the ketchup (which splatters across every available surface in the place in crazy Rorschach designs), and the huge book which sails all the way to the feet of a small family eating a late lunch in the far corner, before slamming to the ground with a noise like a gunshot.

Everyone in the entire place turned to look at me, holding an empty tray, looking very much like I just flung my trash across the restaurant on purpose, like an errant monkey escaped from the zoo.

Normally this would cause me to go into a fit of embarrassment so intense that I would have had to curl up into a ball underneath one of those ugly Formica tables until every single person had left the building, and even then, I would have blushed every time I passed by the McDonalds for at least a week.

Instead, I didn't care at all. I sort of just shrugged and walked over to get the book. Then, when I managed to immediately drop the book again and spill my drink down the front of my shirt when I overcompensated trying to grab it mid-air during the fall, I didn't even pay attention to see if anyone noticed or cared, or was calling the police to deal with the nutbar by the napkin dispenser who was destroying the place. I went and got a napkin, dried myself off, got my goddamn free refill, put on my gigantic aviator sunglasses, and strode confidently out to bake in my non-air conditioned TOM.

As such, I didn't even think to write about it, even though it was pretty much the equivalent of an improbably lame slapstick routine from a bad movie.

I can't tell if this means I'm suddenly desensitized to all forms of embarrassment relating to my super-clumsy powers, or if I'm just too exhausted from all this work lately to properly focus on my basic Jason responses to most stimuli (read: intense overreactions and detailed examination of the tiniest disruption in my everyday life to the point of obsession and madness.)

I will go with a little from Column A, and a little from Column B.

A Fifth Grade Book Report, only with More Swearing

The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger

The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger sent me into a fit of white-hot, completely incomprehensible rage, to the point that I wanted to find the main character of the book, grab her by the shoulders, and shake her as hard as possible, in the hopes that it would jar her brain into functioning. This report will be an exploration of exactly why I could not accept this perfectly normal jaunt into chick lit without resorting to violence.

First, just to address it and get it out of the way, I absolutely cannot stand the way the book was written. I don't know if it was just the tone the writer took, or if she is just deficient in the area of the English language, but it's poorly written. Which is painfully ironic, since the book is written from the first-person perspective of someone who aspires to write for The New Yorker more than anything. Sigh. Anyway, that's not what sent me into my fit, I just figured it needed saying.

I'm sure everyone and their brother is now well acquainted with the story, but to shorthand it: Girl fresh out of college with no experience in fashion gets a job as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of the premier American fashion magazine, said editor turns out to be ludicrously demanding to the point of insanity, girl attempts to learn an important lesson about something (note: she does not). Adding a good hook to the whole thing, the author spent a real-life year as an assistant to the incredibly powerful editor of Vogue, giving it at least the potential to be somewhat autobiographical. The book has since been adapted into a (far better (and far worse, in certain ways)) movie recently, which prompted this reading in the first place.

Where to start? My primary problem with this entire setup is that continually throughout the entire book, Andrea (the assistant/narrator/my nemesis) displays such continuous contempt for her job/boss/co-workers/everything, that it makes her utterly unlikeable. Utterly. I assumed that this would be addressed at some point near the end of the book as one of the lessons that she was going to learn, that part of the reason her job was so untenable was her own outlook. I was incorrect in this assumption, to a gigantic degree.

Yes, her job does suck. Badly. She is forced to do all the menial tasks of an assistant, without the slightest notice of her work (or even her name) unless she screws up. She is given completely impossible and ridiculous tasks (getting an advance copy of the latest Harry Potter, tracking down a restaurant review from a newspaper without even the basest of information) and is berated even when she manages to be mildly successful. She has to work horrible hours and misses many important dates.

But really? Whatever. It's your job, you do it. There are so many moments of sheer pettiness and ridiculousness on her part I want to stop and question her whether or not she understands what the concept of an assistant is. When she has to remind herself not to spit in the coffee that she was picking up for her boss. When she gets upset that her boss does not acknowledge her as she is dropping off a book at her apartment. When she literally sighs at requests given to her but [paraphrased] "not loud enough to be commented on." I understand that it's a cumulative sort of thing, that the larger abuses build up to make everything seem like unbearable, but for the purposes of the book, it makes her look incompetent and unprofessional beyond words.

Not only that, but she actually is a bad assistant constantly throughout the book. She gets four times the orders of coffee at Starbucks to hand out to the homeless and gets frustrated when she gets in trouble for taking so long. She spends an extra 20 minutes talking on the phone for a personal call on the way to pick up her boss's lunch, and then is enraged when her boss has already eaten lunch.

She has this sense of complete entitlement that makes absolutely no sense, that she thinks she is so much better than everything she is a part of. The running line in the book that she uses as her ironic fallback - everyone always tells her "a million girls would die for" her job. Like, haha everyone would die for her job but actually it is so horrible, amirite? Except no, really, this is an incredible opportunity that she is fucking up, because she thinks she's somehow above it. Yeah the job itself sucks, but the perks and connections she is getting are incredible and the job is exceedingly short term. At least in the movie version, they address this issue and she sort of rolls with it and grows with her new understanding. In the book, by the end she decides she was completely justified in her contempt and is proud that was able to escape from it all without being changed.

I... seriously... white hot rage. I could easily go on and on with my issues, but my blood pressure would probably suffer as a result. I just cannot wrap my mind around how anyone is expected to identify with this girl. Yes, her boss is crazy and it's mind-blowing how demanding she is. It's interesting to read to find out how far she will actually do next, and the potential for the real-life connection makes it even moreso, but my final result is to just want to punch Andrea in the face, and read more about the crazy boss.

Just a horrible, horrible book, that I absolutely could not put down.

And we're not even going to get into my problems with the movie, lest I break the blogger.

A Million Ways (To Be Lame)

Y'all, my body is in full scale revolt. I don't know how exactly it came to this, but:

• Deaf in right ear
• Left bicep is spasming uncontrollably
• Left knee buckles at random intervals for no apparent reason
• Hair - completely unmanageable.

Toss on top of that my inability to stop sneezing and I'm about as useful as a hermit crab in a Jenga contest today. (I had to reach really hard for that simile, I hope you appreciate it.)

In this state of unrest, I'm going to return to my lamest incarnation - short form review Friday.

Books:

Noisy Outlaws, Unfriendly Blobs, and Some Other Things..., Mc Sweeney's, et al. An incredibly uneven set of short stories with absolutely no common theme and the longest title I have ever seen. Aimed at "young adults first," it's actually not too bad. Some incredible writers contributed stories (Neil Gaiman's Sunbird story about a roundtable of gourmands is uniformly excellent and Nick Hornby's offbeat tale about the smallest country in the world is probably the most fun), but on the whole, the longer stories that take up the bulk of the book are the least interesting of the bunch (A detailed look at a quirky kid who's parents disappear to Peru just went entirely over my head. And it was a million pages long). A little disappointing, but mostly because I had expectations entirely unrelated to what was actually advertised. I'd recommend it anyways, solely based on the Gaiman story.

Fraud: Essays, David Rakoff - Yeah, not David Sedaris. That's pretty much the sum total I got out of this book, which is entirely unfair, but whatever.

Like Sedaris all the way down to the mannerisms practically, but more cynical, with a tighter focus on his subjects. Not necessarily more or less funny/insightful, but it didn't quite hit my taste. Really, I'm not objective in the slightest, don't go by me on this one. Even after the funniest of stories (his bit about playing Freud for Macy's at Christmas was awesome), all it really made me want to do was go read Me Talk Pretty One Day.

Music:

Christina Aguilera - Back to Basics. Umm, is it weird that I'm doing this review before the CD is actually released next week? Exactly what are you implying? That I am some sort of dirty internet stealer? I am shocked and appalled at how you think of me. (Think that of Frank) That said, seriously, this album is utterly awesome. Which is good, considering it's been, what, four years since her last album? I would have been crushed had it sucked. But there are so many standout great songs on this (two disc!) album, I am universally appeased. A lot of great jazz and blues numbers, some standard Aguilera belters, and a couple ridiculously dirty songs. Things to look out for: Ain't No Other Man (a song that has not left my iPod in over a month), Candyman and Nasty Naughty Boy (the aforementioned ridiculously dirty songs), and The Right Man (traditional overwrought ballad to close the album all full of organs and what have you).

Holly Brook - Like Blood Like Honey. Like: Jewel (before all the poetry), Vanessa Carlton (before she went all Goth and Wiccan and hilarious), Fiona Apple (without all the crazy), Sarah McLachlan(without all the sucking). Such a pretty CD. Listen to: Where'd You Go is a good starting place.

Ok Go - Ok Go & Oh No. God, I love when people recommend me music that is exactly in line with my tastes. This is firmly entrenched in my niche: namely, pop music that isn't too mainstream, a little smart, and a little off the goddamn wall. Kinda like the Orson I linked a couple of weeks ago, or the Franz Ferdinand (who I cannot stand for some reason) if you want to go popular. I cannot stop listening to this stuff, and I don't care. Must hear: A Million Ways to start, then The Fix is In and Hello, My Treacherous Friends to cement the love.

Bitter:Sweet - The Mating Game. Don't you just hate it when Frank is right about something? I know I do. This CD is so slick, it kills me that he was the one who recommended it to me. To just fall off the rails and just go with nonsensical ramblings: Cool jive, smooth jazz remixed with a little techno DJing, laid back grooves, with a synthesized orchestra always at the ready. Are you confused enough? I can't explain this album at all. Go listen to The Mating Game and Dirty Laundry and see if you can do it any justice with words.

Movies:

Pirates of the Caribbean - Dead Man's Chest. I'm allowed to review this decades after I first saw it because by some weird twist of fate, I have totally seen it three times now already. Words can't really do it justice, how big my love is for this movie. To get the complaint out of the way, did they really need that many action sequences? Three squid attacks and two instances of giant things rolling through jungles seems like a bit of overkill. But on the good side: Johnny Depp wins the world. In any other case ever has there been someone that can make me crack up laughing just by running across a screen? I was very surprised about the layers of motive with all the characters, which I didn't really notice on first viewing because I am lame. Like, Elizabeth with the compass, and the ending with Orlando Bloom where he ends up with the wrong conclusion but is still sort of right, you know?

Anyways, excellent excellent movie, a perfectly acceptable Empire Strikes Back sort of middle to go with the rest of the trilogy.

John Tucker Must Die. Oh, why? Also, no. Some good moments, a whole lot of bad ones. Mean Girls recast as Mean Boys without Tina Fey (instead we get Jenny McCarthy). Only real highlight - Sophia Bush absolutely ruling the entire movie with her somewhat sluttish vegan caricature. I love her.

The Davinci Code. I can muster no real emotion for this movie. I liked it better than the book. The blasphemous girl at the end was fun. Tom Hanks' hair still scares the bejesus out of me. Ian McKellen is the best thing in the world. But heck, I liked National Treasure better than this movie, and that movie was some crap. In that case, though, at least it was highly enjoyable crap.

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Well, my arm is still spasming and I have sneezed approximately 48 times during the course of this entry, it's time to give it up. Play nice everyone.

The Cask of Amontilldryer

You'll notice (from my recent posts/phone calls/in-house conversations/incessant and all consuming obsession) that I have recently acquired a washer/dryer combo for my own personal use, through a perfectly legitimate means. The day of installation was to be Saturday.

Let us begin the rundown:

Saturday Morning

To begin, we had already placed both the washer and dryer into what was previously named our Trash Room, now dubbed the Laundry Room of Excellence (and Also Potential Untimely Death, but that comes later). I look at the systems for attaching both of them to their respective walls and decide that the washer looks far more complicated (there are things that screw into things, electrical plugs, and a very menacing looking tube) so I decide to do it first, figuring that an easy dryer will be my reward for all that hard work.

Attempt to move the washer backwards into position - Failed, washer is heavy. I'm like an ant straining away at the side of an entire sandwich. Attempt rocking washer back and forth on each corner into position - Is successful, despite 3 near misses on cutting my toes off with a flailing washer.

After quick phone consultation with father on which pipes attach to which tubes, get tubes tightly screwed onto pipes. Turn pipes on - get doused with gallons of spraying water coming from previously thought to be tight connections. Turn off pipes, utilize pliers to tighten the connections as much as humanly possible. Really wish that I had a wrench specifically for such occasions, or any type of muscle mass to make this job even remotely easy.

Turn water back on, only mild dripping occurs. Consider the operation a success, plug machine into wall, test a rinse cycle. Huzzah and rejoicing, washer is installed. Now just need to move on to easier task - dryer install (Note: This is a misconception of epic proportions). First, get a towel and dry off from previous dousing. Shake all excess water off my head like a twitchy dog. Back to business.

Dryer only has a wall plug and little exhaust tube to attach, decide to do tube first. Problem being, in order to be able to reach said tube, one must be behind the dryer. Dryer is located in small alcove beneath the water heater. In order to get into position, one must slide through an 18 inch gap between top of dryer and shelf holding the heater, and wedge themselves into a space roughly 2'X4' in total floor space. As I am tiny, this is accomplished, just with excessive amounts of contortion and cursing.

Once properly in place, spend many a long hour trying to get the tube attached to both the wall and the back of the dryer. This is not just frustrating, this is how you distill pure frustration that you could bottle and sell. By the time I am done, my fingers are covered in deep scratches and no longer even care if I ever get to dry anything, just so long as I never have to see a dryer tube again. Deep breath and rejoicing.

Go to plug the dryer into the wall and get the hell out of there. Dryer Plug has 4 prongs, Dryer Outlet has 3. Look back and forth between the two approximated 25 times, for the life of me not comprehending how this is possible. 4 prongs, 3 holes, 4, 3. Four, three? FOUR, THREE!?

Decide that the world is fully against me, make up mind to get the hell away from this room and go have some ice cream to calm my nerves and sooth my ragged fingers. Attempt to get out from behind dryer. What was difficult to do from the outside seems physically impossible from behind the dryer. Can find no purchase to pull myself out of the tiny hole, no way to leverage the lower half of my body beyond the dryer. Not enough room to push the dryer out far enough to widen hole. Consider myself doomed.

Call for roommate to come to my aid, as I know he is in his room nearby. No answer. Increasingly desperate calls for his help, as visions of my death walled up behind an inoperable dryer dance in my head. Regret ever reading Edgar Allen Poe. Vow to haunt Frank for the rest of his life if I die lodged behind a large appliance while he sleeps in the room less than 10 feet away.

Finally, by wedging hips sideways between the shelf and top of the dryer and then pivoting the rest of my body up and against the wall, escape from my tiny lint-smelling prison. Intense bruises, but will not suffer ignominious death (just yet). Look around and realize reason that I could not move the dryer out far enough was due to a very strategically placed broomstick. Suspect sabotage, but as roommate was still asleep in next room, highly unlikely. File suspicion away for extended scrutiny later. Yell at Frank for not coming to my rescue. His response in total: "Yeah, I heard you calling, but figured it was for something lame, so I went back to sleep." Will totally haunt him now, no matter what.

Call father for further consultation, need to get a new plug for dryer, which I will have to manually install in a very electrical-wiry way myself. Fear for mankind's safety in general, my own in very specific. Go to Home Depot, am promptly supplied with proper plug and out of the store within 3 minutes, at 75% discounted price. HD knows their stuff. Return home, vow never to go out in 108 degree weather ever again, even for desperately wanted items that would allow me to dry wet things in the privacy of my own home without the use of quarters.

Exchanging of the electrical cords involves all of the following: The tipping over of the dryer (directly onto my foot, being the optional part there), the removal of the back panel, the poking of the multicolored wires while hoping not to be shocked to death, the reassuring call to my father that I could not die from electrocution while the dryer was not plugged into the wall, the discovery that the new plug was not color coordinated like the old plug, requiring a second consultation call to my father (including a second reassurance: "Gosh, Jason, no, you will not be electrocuted, the thing isn't even touching the wall."), the removal of the old plug, the installation of the new plug, the realization that I have an almost pathological fear of electricity, the affixing of the back of the dryer to the machine again, and the fervent prayer that nothing will explode
when I plug it into the wall.

Nothing explodes when plugged. Dryer makes appropriate whirring noises when started.

And there was rejoicing like you have no idea.

Still planning on totally haunting the heck out of Frank, though.

Labor Talks and Some Fabulous Parting Gifts

As some people who know me can attest, there was a time in my life where I was quite strong. To be precise about it, that time was from the start of my sophomore year of college, up through the end of the first semester of junior year. Approximately 18 months wherein I could lift huge amounts of weight, all over the place. Even above my head, if the occasion called for it. I also had a pretty impressive set of arms, if I do say so myself. All very much a "do you have your tickets? To the gun show!" sort of thing.

Only I would never have said such a thing, because I am classy.

For better or worse, those days are behind me, as my personal fitness correspondent/wacky best friend has moved on to the greener pastures of living in the desert managing hospitals, planes, and firearms. Nowadays I'm lucky to break 140 on the scale, can wrap my hand around my entire arm pretty much at any point on said arm, and get winded trying to move a box of copier paper across my office.

Which has been just loverly for the last two weeks, wherein all I have done is move gigantic things everywhere. This is all more or less neither here nor there in terms of importance, just some residual whinging about how I used to be so youthful and vibrant and muscley, whereas now I get invitations to chess clubs daily.

No, this blog is about my newest delicious acquisition for my apartment, my very-own personal in-house washer AND dryer (which were both very heavy and had to be moved this morning by just myself and a Franklin. See, there was a segue in there just waiting for me, but I'm way too tired to tease it out.)

Can you imagine a world where you can do laundry whenever you want? And you don't have to have quarters to do it? And you can just wash, like, one thing if you really wanted to, or do a whole load of nothing but whites. Or if something goes through the dryer and is still a tiny bit damp after the cycle ends, you can just run it for a little while longer. Can you feel my excitement actually pouring out of the internet? Because seriously. So excited that I may need to be sedated.

Actually no, I don't need to be sedated anymore because after moving them in, I am quite drained beyond normal measures. My injury level is quite low, considering it all, though. While Frank and I did manage to drop the washer on my foot twice, and we totally crushed Frank's hand on the doorframe into the apartment enough that I actually heard the "Crunch!" there was no ice, bandages, or excessive cursing required.

They still have to be installed, though, which is something that I don't really want to do myself, as I can barely hook-up a DVD player, let alone a major appliance. Hopefully we can recruit some buff maintenance sort of person who can do this sort of thing in his sleep. Otherwise it will be wise of you to avoid the entire uptown area of Dallas, just in case I cause some sort of washer related explosion that wipes out all of the West Village.

You know, like one does.

Where Cuteness and Gambling Reign Supreme

Not anything of actual consequence, (is anything on here ever of consequence?) but do you want to know how I've been spending every waking second of my downtime for the past three days?

KittenWar!

Seriously, has there ever been a more perfect site? Battle of who is cutest? Kittens who think they are cans of soda? Kittens that endorse McDonalds?

I also really love that they keep a statistical analysis of the kitten wars as well, so you can track the relative cuteness of your cat over periods of time. I now want to adopt a kitten for the sole purpose of trying to out-cute the obvious ringers.

And when I'm just too overwhelmed with the cuteness, I go on the gambling equivalent of Cute Battling Cats...

DiceWars!

Because it's like Risk, only you can play a whole game in about 10 minutes, but still feel like you've conquered the world. But watch out for those pink dice, man. Frickin' Pink is a bastard. Also, you will easily get violent with your computer the first time you roll a total of 8 with 6 dice. Exactly the same as in Risk, only there is less chance of fisticuffs with your friends and more chance of throwing your monitor through a window.

Good times, man.

Unsent #2

Now with 100% more Unoriginality!

-------------------------------------
To: The Woman in my Office, Three Doors Down
Re: Work Attire

Hi, so seriously? That was the best outfit you could come up with to wear to work today? You got up this morning, went to your closet and thought to yourself: "Self, you know what you should wear today? A lime green spandex top, a flowing brown peasant skirt, and a belt that is covered in tiny bells! So everywhere you go people will hear the delightful sound of ringing and think that Santa Claus and his reindeer have invaded the office in the middle of summer! Oh yeah, you are so fashion-forward!"

I can only assume that's how the thought process went, because...yeah.

Only, no dear. On every single level imaginable. I would wish for blindness, except that the shirt already did that job for me. And that still doesn't help with the constant ringing.

Yours Truly in Fashion Solidarity,
Jason

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

To: Office Moving Guys
Re: The Concept of Moving

Okay guys, I understand. Our move is not that big, three offices moving to a different space on the same floor, we're not exactly a high priority on the list of Pressing Moving Issues. But when you show up three hours late, with three guys instead of the expected 5 (one of whom was at least 60 years old and walked with a limp), don't bring all of our equipment, and forget the keys to our filing cabinets, it is considered common courtesy to, I don't know, actually FINISH MOVING EVERYTHING, before bolting out of the office at 6:00, leaving a 140-pound former-computer-science-major with a propensity for clumsiness to move two 150 lb modular walls, three copiers from the 1980's and a filing cabinet that weighs as much as the space shuttle, by himself into the new offices.

And maybe I'm just old fashioned or something, but I would think that after all that you shouldn't also have the gall to then bill us for 3 additional hours (at the after-hours delivery rates), when you were only here for 2 hours total. It only incites my rage and gives me the intense urge to work up my own invoice that puts a dollar value on the difficulties I had moving those gigantic walls by myself after 6:00 on a Friday afternoon and deliver it to you in a fitting manner (read: wrapped around a brick through a window, or similar).

My Best in Back Pain,
Jason

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

To: The Heat
Re: Yeah, The Heat

Okay, we get it, you're hot. Enough already. Seriously. You understand that I still don't have working air conditioning in my TOM right? Your point = Made. I don't need to walk into my office building, take a deep breath and literally feel the interior or my lungs cooling off.

Yesterday I was moving some boxes out of the back of the TOM around 3:oo in the afternoon and I got a physical burn on my arm from the surface of the truck. Where is the fun in that? Do you feel like a big man? Burning a poor innocent pale guy who is just trying to do his (amended to include new personalized tasks for a crazy person) job? Just wait until Fall gets here and then we'll see how tough you are.

(Incidentally, I don't mean all this in a goading fashion, because seriously, if it gets any hotter I may actually die. From spontaneous human combustion. We cool, right? (Geddit? Cool? That was a joke, from me to you, Heat.))

Face Meltingly Yours,
Jason

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To: The Cute Blockbuster Guy
Re: Totally not Stalking You

Hi. Yeah. So how's it going? Good. Okay, so recently when I was in the store, I know I totally brought up the fact that you had recently got a new haircut (by saying "OMG you got a haircut!" like a crazy person, or perhaps an awestruck 13 year old), despite the fact that we barely know each other beyond our near daily interactions at the checkout counter, in my seemingly unending quest to rent every movie Blockbuster has in stock. But that does not mean that I am a crazy stalker guy! I just really liked your hair before, so it was shocking when I came in and it was all different.

Yeah, okay, so that's a little weird, but everyone has their quirks, mine just happen to be a little more extensive in number and include an appreciation of a really good highlights job. Can't one guy just comment on a near stranger's haircut without seeming completely insane? And yeah, maybe I have a little crush on you, and your new haircut with even more prominent highlights, and your tendency to compliment my taste in movies. Totally doesn't mean I'm stalking you, though. Admiring from nearby is something totally different.

Anyways, what are you doing later?

With Movie Love,
Jason

Ghost Story

To make up for the fact that I haven't posted in over two weeks (!) I present to you a bedtime story.

So it is late. I've finished my 11:00pm special snack (bowl of Black Cherry Jell-O and Wheat Thins), brushed my teeth, and changed into my pajamas. Before I go to bed, I decide to do a little reading, as my sleep cycle is way off lately for some reason. I settle on a book of short stories that I bought about a month ago but never got around to actually reading, due to my overwhelming workload lately.

The first two or three stories are funny and cute and a little simplistic. Y'know just like I am, so I'm completely hooked. But then the fourth story takes a really dark turn. It's still short, and pretty simplistic, but whoa it is for-serious scary. Actually, not real scary in the way that most people would be scared of it, but in a very Jason Way of Scariness, where it's all about how your imagination can take a story and run with it. Basically, it's a campfire ghost story, amped up in my mind to sudden Blair Witch-like proportions in my very sleepy state.

When I get ghost-story paranoid like this, I tend to take certain precautions (read: insanities). They are, in no particular order:

• I check the closet for any and all monsters/killers/clowns/etc, and carefully close the door behind me.
• I do the same for the bathroom (careful again to check behind the shower curtain, because monsters are clever like that).
• I lock the door to my bedroom (if something is coming in the apartment, it's getting Frank, not me).
• And I make sure that when I get in bed, I sleep right up against the wall, so there's no chance anything can sneak up behind me. (Hey, no one ever said I wasn't crazy).

Steps 1, 2, & 3 are all taken care of in due course. I'm still a little jumpy and worried about monsters, but dagnabbit, I am an adult, nearly a quarter of a century old, I can handle such things. I turn off my computer monitor, and the room is completely pitch black (damn my installation of those heavy curtains).

Again, hey, I'm cool, I'm an adult. I take the requisite four steps to my bed, stepping on various bits of clothing, books, furniture, and the like. The last step right next to my bed has me trodding on my comforter, which, whatever, right? Until all of a sudden there is this horrible WAILING NOISE coming from DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF ME UNDER THE BED.

I have no analogue to explain exactly how freaked out I was at this moment. Let's boil it down to the basics: Screamed like a little girl, kicked out involuntarily and seriously injured my foot on the base of my bed, fell over backwards while flailing my arms, managing to trip over the chair in front of my desk and knock a glass of water of the nightstand and all over myself before collapsing into an hysterical heap on the floor, certain that I was about to be devoured.

So it turns out that the phone in my room has a speaker phone option. Which means that if the proper button is pressed, it gives you a very loud dial tone. And that if my room is dirty enough, the phone may be buried under piles of clothes and comforter and wedged under my bed. And when you step on said phone, pressing said button, while it is properly buried under said items of clothes and comforter, it gives off a sound that is not entirely unlike a noise that a bloodthirsty monster who has a taste for nerd-flesh might make.

This is not my beautiful life. Also, my foot really hurts now.

So how have you all been?

Serious Business

I hate thinking about money, I hate talking about money, just the entire enterprise of finances drives me insane. In a general sense, I keep track of where my money goes (rent, student loans, food, and blockbuster pretty much), but getting right down to the details and breaking down exactly how much I make and what percentages go where...well it combination depresses me/freaks me out.

#1 because I make way less than I should for the amount of work that I do, so actively not considering the hard numbers makes me less depressed and more likely not to quit my job and join the food stamp line for my share of that delicious government cheese
AND
#2 because when it comes down to it, I waste a lot of money on really frivolous things.

This was brought into sharp relief this last week when I had to budget my entire weekly allowance on the $17 dollars that were in my wallet. There was a payroll mixup at my office, so I was only paid about a third of what I was owed at the end of the month. At the time, because I am the fool that is immediately parted with his money, I thought I had enough money saved up to tide myself over until the next payday.

This was something of a miscalculation, as when two unexpected bills came due on Monday I had no cash in by bank account. Since physically declaring bankruptcy tends to be frowned on in polite society, I instead emptied my beautiful Car Fund Savings Account to cover the difference. Which satisfied the bill collectors, but robbed me of my plans to go to the VW dealership on Saturday and return with a car that a) had air conditioning, b) had a working gas gauge, and c) contained shocks that kept your teeth from rattling out of your skull while driving down neighborhood roads in Dallas.

It also left me again with no cash in my bank account, and no way to cover day-to-day expenses without resorting to my credit card, which at this point is like getting a loan from the mafia, except my credit card company wouldn't just stop at my kneecaps. So I had to go from Monday to Friday on $17 dollars. This should not be hard, right? There is food in my house, the cable & internet bill is paid up through the end of the month. Just stay indoors.

Yeah, so it turns out that my life revolves around throwing away money. There can be no going out for lunch, there can be no movies, no getting Dr Pepper or Coke, there can be no filling up the TOM with gas to drive anywhere, there can certainly be no going out with people for coffee or dinner.

The only things there can be: Buying new kitchen sponges to replace the last one we had (which had to be thrown out due to plague), getting a 99 cent chicken sandwich from Wendys and making it into a full meal by taking really small bites, and putting $8 dollars worth of gas in the TOM and reeeally hoping that you can keep track of the MPG ratio in your head because of the aforementioned gas gauge malfunction.

And y'all? Sponges are expensive.

I made it through, though, and still have $4.75 to my name. So, y'know score.

Now begins the reconstruction process for my beloved saving account, because seriously, I really want a car with air conditioning. But now that I know that I can make it through the week on $12.25 dollars, I think I can speed the process up a bit.

And I'm pretty sure that I won't have to buy new sponges every week, so that'll make it go even faster.

8 Excerpts From my (Would-Be) Blog Entries Lately

If I wasn't so damn busy....

#8: ...so I've realized that the mortgage industry is basically a twisted sociology experiment. Take the most difficult short term event you can think of that does not involve physical harm to your body (moving), combine it with the largest financial event of your life (buying a house). Tack on the most convoluted, confusing, and draconian business you can still muster in the 21st century (mortgages). Then throw in a couple of Real Estate agents (the human equivalent of a ferret on coke crossed with some sort of deadly snake). And roll it all into a 3 week span wherein you are actively soliciting companies to enslave you into crippling financial debt. I get that this is going to be traumatic for you, but just imagine how I feel...

#7: ...is it possibly to completely love and be completely against a movie at the exact same time? Because don't get me wrong, I loved almost every single minute of The Devil Wears Prada without exception. Streep continues to prove that she can act circles around everyone else in the world with one hand tied behind her back. Emily Blunt is steals every scene she's in without fail, and Anne Hathaway is not necessarily bad at what she does. But what were they going for here? Meryl Streep = evil? or Good? Or intensely misanthropic while still being very good at her job. Because I got #3 out of the movie, which I'm not thinking is what they were going for...

#6: ...and it wasn't just a sneeze, it was like the most violent sneeze ever visited upon a human being. I mean it sent my entire upper body into a forward seizure like I was going to to a double flip off a diving board. In response to this, my hands swing up to shield my mouth, as spewing spittle across any office is considered bad form. And I swear to God, I managed to jab my finger in my eye so hard that I thought I was blind for over a minute. I imagined my life from here on out wearing an eye patch like a mortgage-pirate. It was not an enjoyable fantasy, believe me...

#5: ...because what else do you do after you've already been in the office for 10 hours and your weekend still will not begin until you water the plants? Obviously the answer is to take the two Starbucks cups that you use to get the plant water, affix them to both of your ears like you are listening for the ocean, and then wander down the hall to the water fountain. It's not like there is anyone there to notice you at 5:45 on a Friday. Except for perhaps the cleaning crew. And the late appointment family in Conference Room B, and that guy from...

#4: ...you would like to think that the process of stapling is not that difficult to master. Well, if you are anyone else other than me, you would be correct. However if you are Jason, you will find a way to screw it up, even if you've been doing it professionally for two years now. Here's a hint: If you are using your index and middle finger to press the stapler down and encounter resistance, do not decide to slam your first down on the stapler to help it along. Because it will basically break your fingers in half if you are off by even the slightest bit...

#3: ...no joking, no hyperbole, all serious, the worst book I have ever read in my entire life. Not even humorously bad, or train wreck bad, or let-me-read-the-prose-to-you-out-loud, Anne-Heche-autobiography-style bad, just horrible bad. Like, when I am on my death bed, I will curse the author for the precious 5 hours of my life that I devote to the dreck that he had the audacity to call a book. No characterization, poor plotting, poor sentence structure, completely half-assed attempts at scares, and an ending that rivals "And it was all just a dream" for the worst possible way to close a novel. Someday I will find that "author" and when I do...

#2: ...are you allowed to name cacti? In any case, I love him greatly and despite Frank's insinuations that I am killing him, he is still totally alive, with his shiny orange top and multiple layers and vicious-looking spikes. This may not seem like the largest accomplishment, keeping a cactus alive for just over 9 days, but believe me, it is up there in the Jason Book of Impressive Deeds. I have now moved him off the patio, though, because while the instructions do say that he likes sunlight, I'm pretty sure the amount of heat outside right now is enough to make him spontaneously combust, and even cacti probably have issues with fire...

#1: ...any yet here it is July 8th, and I still plan on going into work next week. The vow has been broken, I've officially crossed the two year deadline at this place with no apparent plans of quitting. My office has apparently become absorbed into my being and I am now actually my job. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl: literally two full years in the same place, doing the same thing. 730 days. I can actually quote you interest rates off the top of my head. I have opinions about the best type of financing options on houses. I have used the phrase TGIF unironically (although, only once, I swear). I have a Tuesday outfit. Wow, this entry got real depressing real fast...

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Some day I might actually get around to finishing an entire entry, but I wouldn't hold my breath.

Pimp Cane Update

Because, seriously, I cannot stop thinking about this, I have done a little research.

And now I'm conflicted.

In my newfound pimp position, would I need a Parrot-Head Cane with Concealed Dagger?

Or maybe the God of Wine Cane with Concealed Flask for those hectic days on-the-go when I forget my hip flask and/or my paper-bag-concealed bottle of cheap wine?

No, perhaps the Steel Skull Head on a Stick Cane, who's description actually reads: "The finely chiseled skull head motif is meant to be confrontational and is sure to provoke conversation among those who stop to admire it." Apparently it also "will last a lifetime and serve [me] well in all of lifes adventures."

I am almost certain that is pimp-code for "Will strike fear into all your pimp rivals and yet still be durable enough for everyday pimp use, with a lifetime guaranty."

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I have not yet started researching big hats with feathers in the brim, but you know it's only a matter of time.

I don't know when exactly it was that the wheels fell off this blog, but we're moving forward anyways, by God.

I Can Already Hear the Snickers

Ugh.

So somehow last night while I was asleep, I a pulled a muscle. Okay, specifically, I pulled a groin muscle. This had to have happened sometime between 3:30am (when I woke up and got a glass of water (and bruised my elbow on the counter going into the kitchen)) and 7:48 (when I finally dragged my lazy ass out of bed). It seems like a very short window of opportunity.

This doesn't seem possible, it's not like I was running the 40 yard dash last night, I was asleep. And I don't remember any dreams about being chased by rabid clowns (for once, finally). But oh dear lord, when I did drag my ass out of bed, I took one step and collapsed onto the ground like I took a bullet to the knee. Or, y'know, groin. The pain, she is exquisite.

So today is my day of limping around and wincing. I could really use a cane right now.

Strike that - I really want a cane now. A really pimp cane, possibly with an eightball on top. But I think buying a cane is a little drastic. Plus, I don't even know where you'd find one. What sort of shop do you think pimps frequent that sells canes?

Wait.

Now I'm really intrigued. Where do pimps get all of their accoutrements? Big purple hats with feathers, velvet suits, fuzzy steering wheel covers, pimp canes - these things are not usually stocked in your normal stores. The only place you can get them is novelty stores, and I know no self-respecting pimp shops at a novelty store. They buy the genuine articles, hats with feathers that were created with serious, non-ironic intentions.

Is this what that song was about? It's hard out there for a pimp, to find a good pimp gear supplier?! That makes so much sense. I feel their pain now. Me and the pimps, we're like this now. [insert hand gesture representing closeness with pimps here. use your imagination.]

Today I am a Jedi (and other embarrassing tales)

If you will look to your right there a bit, you will see a nice new widget on my sidebar, which is a neato little direct link to my most recently played music tracks on iTunes. In case I have not said it lately, I truly dig the Last.fm. Sadly enough, that little widget took about 2 hours to program in, because initially I changed everything around all dramatic and crazy and with offsets and framing...only to realize that it looked like crap and I should just go back to the original format and just change one line of code.

My HTML-fu is not so strong these days.

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Because I decided that the cave that suffices as my office was not quite full of enough humming fluorescent lights, I went around and replaced all the inset lights around my desk area. This left me with 3 burnt out fluorescent bars and a little free time.

This is a bad combination when you are alone. Because why not have a little mock lightsaber fight in the comfort of your own office? Only, when this is done, make sure your office door is closed. And for God's sake, don't make the little accompanying lightsaber sounds with your mouth. Dignity, man!

Whether or not I followed my own advice I will not divulge here. I will only say that from now on I'm getting into the office really early, and leaving really late. And never ever interacting with anyone else in the office. Just to be safe.

Addiction

Hi, I'm Jason and I have a tiny marshmallow addiction.

Hrm.

That should read "Tiny Marshmallow" Addiction, not Tiny "Marshmallow Addiction."

Because the addiction is not so tiny. It is large and powerful. It is the marshmallows that are tiny. Tiny and delicious.

They live inside my big bucket of hot chocolate mix that I keep on hand for my morning doses of Chocolate Coffee. During downtimes in my office, I carefully excavate the tiny marshmallows from the cocoa mix and then devour them. I am like an archeologist of marshmallows, only more hungry.

At this rate, I will run out of marshmallows long before I run out of cocoa mix. This is very bad, and yet I can't think of a solution. I can't imagine what will happen when I no longer have access to my tiny marshmallow fix.

I'm going to continue to live in denial for now, and pretend that there is no actual bottom to my bucket, and that the marshmallows continue all the way down the strata to China on the other side of the world.

Did you ever try to dig a hole to China in your backyard when you were a little kid? When I lived in Homer, Texas (Population: 46) my best friend from across the field (of course we had a field) and I decided to undertake this mission. Only we used the field, rather than the backyard. Mostly because my backyard was actually more of a forest than a yard.

I do believe we got exactly 3 feet into the ground before we recognized that the idea might be beyond the scope of our tools (one shovel and a spackling trowel, and each of us being about 4 feet tall) and went back to our extended imaginary world wherein we battled against invisible but ultimately evil beings who lived in the trees of the forest and were made mostly of mud.

I would say this shows that I was pretty pragmatic kid, but mostly it just shows that we were really, deeply weird. In any case, it also led to one the primary indicators of exactly how clumsy I would grow up to be: Despite the intense largeness of the field, I still managed to fall into that stupid hole at least three times while we lived there. The odds of that have got to be astronomical; I mean that field was frickin' huge.

(Aside: The other two main indicators? I managed to fall and break my nose twice before I hit the age of, like, 9. It's a miracle my face remains passable today. I'm still really self conscious of my nose, though.)

Wait, wasn't I talking about marshmallows?

Crap.

Freedom, Coke, and Cell Phones

Only four things today, because I had a very lazy week and didn't actually do anything that wasn't just a ton of work. So many times this week I got home and collapsed on the couch, only to realize later that it was past 7:00 and I hadn't even taken my work shoes off. And I hate my work shoes. That's how bad this week has been.

1. New haircut looks less bad. But my head does not understand the concept of short hair. I guess it's just used to having a lot of cover, but every time a breeze comes by I get goosebumps all over my scalp. It's so disorienting, especially when it happens while I'm walking. You have no idea how many times I have walked into something this week because I just got a head chill (a head chill is the lesser cousin of a brain-freeze, but without the added enjoyment of ice cream).
   
2. Movie Review: Freedomland - A step-by-step walking through of my thought process while watching this movie: Boring, boring, Julianne Moore is a good actress, boring. Samuel Jackson decided to bring it for this movie, eh? More boring, overuse of slow motion, racism, several scenes must have been cut here in the middle. Even more boring, okay that makes no sense. Wow, one intensely good scene. Edie Falco? Really? Oh no she di'n't! Wow, how is this still boring? And it's over. No wait, there's another scene. Now over. No wait! One more scene. Now over. Maybe? No. Now? Okay.
   
   Please don't rent this movie, it makes you tired and isn't remotely interesting.
   
3. Thing Review: Coca Cola w/Coffee - No, this is not something that I just made up in my basement or whatever, this is an actual product offered by a multinational corporation. It is also the most vile thing I have ever put in my mouth. I love coffee. I love Coke. But never the twain shall meet. Because seriously. This is the worst invention EVER. Whoever designed this should be shot. No questions. It will be natural selection at its finest. We must think in terms of good of mankind.
   
4. Book Review: Cell, Steven King - I can't decide if I love this book, or hate it. I think it's one of those love/hate things where it means that I actually really like it a whole lot. In it's favor: Tons of gore, fast paced, zombies!, compelling writing like you only get from Steven King. Against it: None of the usual extensive character studies and background that usually means Steven King, short by his standards, rather abrupt ending, a surprising lack of character attachment, mildly ludicrous plot (which can be forgiven, considering it is about a cell phone pulse that turns everyone who hears it into a zombie).
   
   I really enjoyed the plot and pacing to a good degree, especially in the beginning, but there is a shift in the book about 200 pages in, where in his older works you would get the ramp up into the pulpy middle before the ridiculous denouement. And instead we get an abrupt ending to part two, and then a ramp up into a slightly disappointing and vaguely trifling ending.
   
   Still genuinely creepy, sufficiently gory and King-ish, just not the best thing in the world. I am very looking forward to his next book, though. I really liked that handwritten excerpt thing at the end of this one. I'm glad he's having a retirement full of writing. Good for him.

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I have nothing else to say to any of you, except that I plan on taking this weekend off in earnest. Have fun.

Also, Go Mavs! For the love of God, Go Mavs. You are giving me a heart attack.

Hair and Vehicular Homicide

5 Days Later

Well it is done. I have neatly sidestepped all the hair issues and questions of highlights in the most straightforward way possible: I just cut it all off, real-world-Matrix-style minus the helpful head-jack. Which is as close to truth in advertising as you can get - My scalp is pretty much on display, in all its glorious oddly shaped pointiness. This harkens back to my early college years during the time when I was still rebelling against my high school days of really ugly long-hairedness. It has yet to be determined if this will usher in a similar return to overly wordy prose and a tendency for very emo behavior. All signs point to yes, though.

Mostly its just convenient, as it is already the summer of wicked hotness (4 straight days over 100 degrees) and my TOM still lacks what polite society calls 'Air Conditioning.' Also, this saves precious minutes in the morning trying to tame the residual bed head - even combed my hair still looks like I just rolled out 5 minutes ago. Already, though, I am very conscious of my ears. They're just so big and out there.

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Speaking (earlier) of the TOM, I did get a good bit of work done on the malfunction, but it was very 2 steps forward, 18 steps back. Oil was successfully changed without anyone dying in the process, fuel injector cleaned to hopefully forestall any further ugly scenes with ignition and whatnot, and the air conditioning was treated to work for a couple of days. All accomplished without grievous injury to my person, although at one point my face was covered with Freon and I thought I might have gone blind.

But in retribution the TOM managed to throw it all back in my face, as the compressor seemingly failed halfway through my weekend adventures and started shooting super-heated air out of the vents in an attempt to melt my skin off Raiders-of-the-Lost Ark-style. Eventually it kicked back in, but the air conditioning treatment is now gone. Sum total of air conditioned time in the TOM: 44 minutes. Good times. And the car died twice this morning at stop lights on the way to work.

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In seemingly unrelated news, I'm going car shopping later on this week. Isn't that eerie?
(More news later, I'm currently swamped.)

Wherein I Learn an Important Lesson About Myself

So I was reading over the last few entries I wrote, and I was all "Man, why do I always talk about so much gay stuff?" And I vowed to come up with something totally normal and mainstream and interesting.

And then got two paragraphs deep into a discussion about how much I want to get highlights in my hair before I realized something:

I am never going to be a normal boy.

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Yeah, I really want to get some highlights. My hair has passed its tipping point from mildly shaggy, to unbearably long. And I don't do long hair. It just looks horrible on me, it doesn't curl or arrange itself artfully around my face, it gets long and bushy and starts flailing out in all directions. Give it one more week and I'll start to get that mullet flip going on in the back, too.

But, as I was discussing with Frank yesterday, long straightened hair is very "in" right now (In my mind it is very Zoolander - "Long hair, it's so hot right now.") and if I actually got some nice lighter streaks going on... the possibilities are endless. The main problem being, I suck at getting haircuts. I wouldn't even know where to begin to look for someone that not only could cut my hair properly, but also color it. At this point, I'm just looking for someone who isn't certifiably crazy.

As this discussion was taking place in Blockbuster (otherwise known as My Second Home) I pointed out that two of the employees there have the exact kind of haircut I am looking for, highlights and all. I really wanted to ask one of them where they get their hair done at, but seriously, I cannot think of a gayer thing to say, short of asking them if they want to go make-out in the Community Favorites aisle.

Although as Frank pointed out, when checking us out at the counter the guy did feel the need to announce to the entire store our selections ("Glory Road and The L Word - Season 1, Volume 3!") so really, it would have been a lateral move, gay-wise, asking him about highlight selections.
So yeah, it's such a conundrum. Get a normal haircut, hopefully from someone who knows what they're doing, or go for the whole deal, coloring and all and pray that it doesn't backfire and I end up looking like a Backstreet Boy reject from 1999? I don't know if I can handle that sort of pressure.

An Only Partially Fictional Conversation

Jason: So I think Sushi Girl and I are in a big fight.

Frank: What?! Why?

Jason: I went to pick up some sushi on Thursday and she didn't come over to give me my order.

Frank: Yes, obviously she hates you.

Jason: No, wait, there is more. So first she walks off from the take-out counter as I come in, and then she gets some burly guy to come over to get my food together. And then when I waved at her, she totally got this 'whatever' look on her face and wandered into the back.

Frank: Convincing evidence. What did you do to piss her off? *Gasp* What if she read your blog?! She knows that you like guys! And this is how she finds out! Everything fits!

Jason: Number one, I get maybe 10 hits on this site a day. The odds of Sushi Girl stumbling on the 2 paragraphs I wrote in March are somewhat... remote. Number tw--

Frank: No! It goes like this: So, Sushi Girl...wait, do you even know her real name?

Jason: ....not necessarily.

Frank: Riiight.

Jason: Whateva! Our love transcends her real name.

Frank: Yeah, okay. Anyways. So Sushi Girl is at home daydreaming one day, on the internet naturally, thinking about that nice boy she sees at work every once in a while, and she googles jason + sushi + dallas. Suddenly she clicks a random link and BOOM! There's your gigantic head right there in front of her!

Jason: Wait "gigantic?"

Frank: And she's all "Ooh, it's destiny! We are meant to be!" And then she reads the entry. And is crushed! You're a big old 'mo! And now she hates you for ruining her dreams!

Jason: Wow.

Frank: I know!

Jason: That has to be exactly what happened.

Frank: Way to ruin her life, fool.

Jason: Maybe I should get her a "I'm Sorry For Being a Homo and Ruining Your Dreams" Gift.

Frank: Maybe you should.

Jason: You'd think they would have that Hallmark card standardized by now. It must come up a lot.

Frank: Right. Just the parents it would apply to alone would be enough to justify it.

Jason: Yeah. A card would have been nice, back then.

.....

Frank: Heh. Your straight crush hates you now. That's perfect.

Jason: Sigh. This is exactly why I stick to guys. The second you fall in love with a raw-fish-serving girl, they read about your homosexual tendencies on the internet and break up your imaginary relationship.

Frank: It's fun inside your head, isn't it.

Jason: Like you wouldn't believe.