Tired Yet

[Saturday]

I go out job hunting, returning 7 applications all around Dallas, and then park my truck out in the parking lot behind the dorms. Half an hour later I go back out to my truck for a grand mall shopping adventure. Sense something is wrong with The Truck of Malfunction (shorthand TOM), as driver’s side is noticeably lower than usual. Upon careful inspection, find I have a flat left front tire.

Damnation.

I have no spare tire (for long and complicated reasons that involve heredity, large weather systems, and crime patterns in Orange, Texas that we won’t get into here) so this will be an extra special feat of Jason.

Decide, in a very Gone With the Wind moment, that tomorrow is another day. More specifically, it is another day in which I’ll be much better equipped emotionally to deal with this whole thing. Throw my hands in the air, say “Bah, pointy, monkey,” and go find alternate driving plans for that night.

[Sunday]

Enlist the beautiful and always resourceful Devon to aid me in my Tire Misadventure (by this point it already has Capital Letter significance in my mind). Plan A is to go to the tire store and see if they have a spare tire for sale. Once we have acquired said spare, Devon will drop me off back at the TOM and hit the road, so’s I don’t inconvenience her too much.

Plan A dies quickly; they don’t sell spares that will fit on my TOM.

No problem - am brilliant, resourceful near-college-graduate, have many other plans.

Plan B: remove tire from TOM, leave it on the jack, run over to tire store, quick repair job and back to replace the tire, no fuss, no muss.

Well crap. I also don’t have spinny metal cross thing that you use to take the nuts off (no clue what it’s called. Take to calling it ‘spinny thing.’).

Arg. Obviously never was a boy scout. Good case could be made for being the anti-boy scout (My motto: “Never be prepared. Or helpful. Lie often.”).

Plan C: Go to Wal-Mart. Find spinny thing, purchase it. Bring it back to TOM, reinstate Plan B. Rock on.

Well crap. After arduous drive to Wal-Mart, are informed that they are all out of Lug Wrenches. (Devon: “Huzzah! We’re making progress. We know what the spinny thing is called now!”)

After careful consideration of the plans, Devon and I find a possible misstep: Devon has a lug wrench in her trunk. Perhaps that might work.

Plan D: Return to TOM, use the lug wrench from Devon’s trunk, once again reinstate Plan B.

Damnation.

Devon’s lug wrench is incompatible.

Quick huddle determines that we have spent far too long on this project. Are both very disheartened by failure of plans A through D. Will try again later on in the week.

Sigh. This is not my beautiful life.

[Thursday]

Noon. Have 2 hours to rectify tire situation, get a program done, and get to work by 2:00. No problem - am cool, confident, resourceful 22 year-old adult. Am so screwed.

Devon rejoins the Misadventure. Love Devon.

Plan E: Exactly like Plan C, but screw Wal-Mart, will rely on AutoZone as more likely to stock auto related paraphernalia.

Drive deep into the ghetto. Do not find AutoZone, but O’Reilly’s Auto Parts looks promising. Sweet! Lug wrenches! [Pause] Three kinds of lug wrenches. Damnation! Ask dude at counter to provide his expert opinion as to which will work best. Guy not only figures out which one it is, but goes back in the back to find a nut from a ’96 Ford Ranger just to be sure. Love him.

Plan E has not failed yet. Ever so promising and within schedule.

Return to TOM. Must loosen lug nuts. Then raise truck on jack. No problem – am strapping young man, have been working out, will have no trouble. 10 minutes into first-lug-nut loosening process with no visible progress and nothing to show for it but a small blister on my hand and sharp pains in my back. Follow advice of Devon and hop on one side of lug wrench. No results, but no injury so I count it as a success. Am afraid Plan E is dead.

Wait. Two Hispanic worker guys (HWG) come to our aid.

HWG: “Need help?”

Jason: “Thank Jesus!!!”

Devon: “I think that means ‘Yes, please.’”

[HWG grabs the lug wrench]

Jason [breathing heavily, covered in sweat]: “I don’t know, they seem pretty stuck…”

[within 5 seconds HWG has all 5 nuts off]

Jason: “Well then, yes, obviously.”

HWGs then proceed to save my life by finding a way to jack the truck up (despite its way too low to the ground status) that involves a jack, a gigantic 2X4, and a floor mat. Love HWGs.

They ask for the spare. I explain the absence of the spare and Plan E. HWG says that the jack is very precarious and will likely fall over if “someone leans on the truck or just breathes heavily.” I stop breathing in the direction of the truck, while I feel an ulcer developing. Thank HWGs 14 million times and tell them we will be quick like rabbits at the tire store and back before disaster can befall. They laugh and walk off into the sunset.

On to 'quick like rabbits' tire repair portion of Plan E. Head off to NTB tire shop, otherwise known as The Slowest Tire Repair Shop In The Recorded History of Humankind (TSTRSINRHOH). Wait at TSTRSINRHOH for 2 hours and 34 minutes (no exaggeration whatsoever). Midway through we are informed that the workers have thrown my tire out into the trash and have gone to retrieve it.

Run into one of our seniors from the Mustang Band whilst in The Waiting Room At The Slowest Tire Repair Shop In The Recorded History of Humankind (TWRATSTRSINRHOH). Have nice conversation, while slowly going insane as I imagine a squirrel throwing a nut at my TOM and it falling over and exploding, while the squirrel looks on, cackling madly.

Devon goes off to acquire us some lunch (have I mentioned? : Love Devon) while I stay and watch C-SPAN, the only channel you get in TWRATSTRSINRHOH. Crazy lady in wild flower patterned dress comes in. Begins talking C-SPAN (specifically to Momar Kadaffi who is talking about Iraq). When C-SPAN does not respond, she turns to me and repeats her line of questions. Have I mentioned that this is not my beautiful life?

Finally the tire is repaired. Is free! However, I have officially missed all of work, so net loss is $34.25. Return to TOM. Has not fallen over, exploded, or been attacked by maniacal squirrels. Breathe deep sigh of relief. Somehow manage to reattach tire to truck after only 30 minutes by ourselves, employing only 2 jacks, one floor mat, and one box of Scooby-Doo Band-Aids.

Final tally: One tire replaced in only 4 hours, 37 minutes.
And there was much rejoicing.

Pure Sap

I really had no idea what I was getting into. When I picked SMU, one of the things they sent me in the mail was a brochure for their marching band (“Join The Mustang Band. We have lots of uniforms!”). I was (am) a nerd, so I called the director up, found out I needed to learn the alto sax and said I’d see him in 3 months.

That first week of orientation was the most difficult week of my life, as far as my limited memory can recall. I didn’t know about the high-step marching, wasn’t good at the high-step marching, could barely get up at 6:30AM, definitely couldn’t play the sax, didn’t understand how long the hours were, and was shy as hell. I was constantly exhausted, insanely sore, ready to die, and generally freaked out.

By the fourth day, I was hooked forever.

It’s an impossible thing to explain (as all these types of organizations are), but by the end of that week I had added 29 brothers and sisters to my life and was ready for anything. Some of it is explainable: starting college in a new town is much easier already knowing 68 people before classes start and having something else going on besides classes is a big help to get you going.

But more than that, I picked up this big dose of school-spirit/camaraderie/history from the band that was almost overwhelming. No matter your differences, every person in the band was right there with you to give everything for a good performance and to cheer your team on right to the bitter-bitter-oh-so-bitter end.

Along with this came some of the most truly, insanely weird, off-the-wall traditions you could possibly imagine. I went an entire fall semester going hoarse every Saturday, staying that way until Monday, and trying to yell even louder the next week. There were occasions when I seriously doubted if my hearing would ever come back (Similarly, there were occasions when some of my hearing never did come back.)

And yet when someone asked me at the end of the year if I was coming back for next year, the thought of leaving had never crossed my mind.

Over four years things some things changed, but the core stayed the same. On occasions I declared I wanted the hell out and was sick of everything. There were times I was so angry at people that fire may have actually shot from my eye sockets. But in the end, every time, I knew that it was where I belonged and I’d see it through.

In the Mustang Band:

I made some of the best friends of my life,

I learned to play loudly, unselfconsciously, and with every fiber of my being,

I understood the concept of real loyalty, to both a group and an institution,

I developed a love and appreciation of jazz music,

I became able to sing the alma mater at the top of my lungs, with my pony-ears up, anywhere at anytime, without caring what other people think,

And I got much more mature while at the same time being very, very immature.

Now my four years are up, so I’m leaving the band. It feels good, in a lot of ways. I’m ready to move on and I don’t regret a single moment of my time spent. But sure, I am sad. It was a huge part of my life that’s over now, you can’t help but miss it.

It ended on a high note for me, though. I was awarded the award (geez does that sound awkward) for best behind-the-scenes-guy in the band. Which was a big deal to me. I’ve never been an in-the-foreground sort of person, I leave that to people with the ability to speak normally and do not fall down at every opportunity. So having whatever small contribution I made recognized is…um…cool. See, this is why I stay in the background.

So, summary. Mustang Band is awesome and I can’t think of a better group of people to join (in a retrospective aw-its-my-last-day sort of way). It was a great time and expect equally great things in the future.

Oh, and I’m totally coming back for alumni band.

High Times in the Law Library

When I first started in working in the library, I was a temp worker shifting every book on the fourth floor to other places on the same floor. It was not the best job in the world, but it paid well, so there were no complaints by me. At least to my boss. After a year, I got hired on as part time shelver guy and left the glamorous world of manual labor behind.

You’d think this would be a step up, but I had my doubts as the semester started. At first, it was just little things. Law students would stare at me weirdly as I walked by pushing one of the little book carts. But I was cool with that, as people stare at me weirdly all the time. The little whispering sounds that seemed to follow my passing I attributed to the novelty of an undergrad wandering around over in the law school.

Eventually these rationalizations failed me, as law students (especially 1L’s) started coming over to me and would painfully try to engage me in conversation. All of the damn time. A sample:

[Jason is up on a stepstool, holding four books, trying desperately to reach the top shelf despite is small stature. A 1L comes up behind him, taps him on the back.]

1L: “Hey.”

Jason (spins around, almost falls, rights himself): “Uh…hi.”

1L: “So, you’re the book shelver, right?”

[Jason looks at the books in his hands, the cart beside him full of books, and then back at the 1L.]

Jason: “Yeah…”

1L: “Ah. Cool…”

[At this point, the 1L almost says something, then stops and looks down at his feet. He starts pointing his toe and twisting his foot around like a 5 year-old in trouble.]

Jason: “Can I help you?”

1L(almost says something, reconsiders): “Uh, no. See ya…”

[He wanders off. Jason shrugs and turns around, misses the shelf and drops the books everywhere, especially on his toes.]

This would seriously happen at least once every single time I went to work. And it went on for a good 2 weeks. It starts to creep me out and how, because I mean, WTF?

(Which was quite the strong feeling for me, seeing as I hate the phrase WTF more than most anything else, besides LOL or the word impetus.)

Finally, it’s all explained in the third week. This time 2 1L’s join forces to come talk to me. Again, they pick the moment when I’m up on a stepstool, arms full of books. Because that’s how my life works. The normal non-banter (see above) occurs and I’m really hoping this will get over quickly, ‘cause my arms are getting tired. As we reach the end, 1L #2 sort of kicks 1L #1 in the leg. #1 takes a deep breath and is all “So, do you do anything else besides shelve books?”

My mind sort of runs through the possibilities of what this crazy law student could possibly be getting at, but I draw a blank. “Um, I’m in the band?” I end up responding.

#1: “No, no. Like, do you sell anything? To, like, law students?”

Again, I wonder what the hell he could possibly getting at. Does he expect me to flip open a trench coat full of knock-off watches and cheesy jewelry? That I have some excellent Clown on Velvet paintings on sale back in the reserve section? WTF?

Jason: “Umm, no. What were you looking for?”

#1: “Oh! Nothing…”

Jason: “No, seriously, what?”

[#2 kicks him again. I’m starting to like #2]

#1: “Well, like, there’s this rumor that the shelving guy in the library sells some really good pot. So we were just, you know, asking…”

[#1 turns really red. Jason resists the urge to scream in frustration.]

Jason: “Ahhh. Yeah, no. Don’t know anything about that. Sorry.”

#1(turns to leave, muttering): “This is the last time I ever listen to a 3L…”

[Jason gives up, turns around and promptly drops all the books, as per usual.]

And that’s how for a month in my sophomore year I was considered the primary drug dealer in the law school. Eventually people stopped asking me, but it took a long time. And when my co-workers found out about the whole thing, they proceeded to mock me about it for the entire year. So, yeah, good times.

My Lack of Learning Systems

So I’ve worked in a law library for the last four years, with varying degrees of success. It’s a pretty sweet deal most of the time. Good pay, fun coworkers, flexible hours. On the whole it rocks, but sometimes my unique luck and disposition have made for some rather ridiculous situations.

Take last week. I work nights these days, so basically I shelve a couple of books and then work at the front desk the rest of the time. Occasionally we have a special project for the night. Last week, the special project was moving around several honkin’ piles of boxes from one basement room to another. Since there were way too many for me to transport by myself, one of my coworkers made me a nice deal: if I would clear the space in basement during his dinner break, we would go down there together when he got back to do all the heavy lifting.

A little back-story on the basement: It freaks the bejesus out of me. It’s dark and creepy, with loud florescent lights and ancient library related paraphernalia littering the corners. So sometimes I need a little distraction to take my mind off the horror that is the basement, whilst I’m down there. On this particular night, my distraction of choice was Britney Spears’ latest adventure in recorded music, In the Zone.

And while I’m listening to said CD, sometimes I tend to sing along. I mean, who could it hurt, right? The basement is locked to everyone except staff and the only staff around nights is me, Desk Guy (who can’t leave it unmanned) and Guy Who’s Out at Dinner. Thus, thinking I’d be all alone in my very own basement of good acoustics, I began rocking out proper to the inherently catchy beats of a blonde pop star. Now, I might not have the best singing voice in the world, but I can surely get into a song well enough. And when you add in the dance moves, it’s truly a sight to behold. Not that anyone should.

And yet.

So I move a particularly large stack of books over to their proper place deep in the back west stacks. Continuing to sing along, as I have been doing for the last, I don’t know, 7 minutes or so. I sort of do this half spin/hop/fist pump move out of the stacks to head back out of the basement - - - And run into Guy-Who-Most-Definitely-Should-be-at-Dinner-Right-Now. He’s sort of collapsed against the wall, laughing very, very hard.

Sometimes you just have these moments in life where it would be very helpful to have some sort of invisibility device, or perhaps a nice hole in the Earth to fall into and never return. This was such a moment. Alas, no hole appeared. In the end, he was very complimentary about the whole performance. Once he caught his breath again, that is.

What makes this story all the more horrible is that it wasn’t the first time that this sort of thing had happened. Only back then it involved with a reference librarian, two students, and the Chicago soundtrack. Back then, I made a solemn promise to myself never again would I do something so embarrassing. It’s good to see how well these sort of things work out. Cripes.

But anyway, stay tuned for an entire week of The Continuing Misadventures of Jason in the Law Library. I’ll post as many as I can. Because there are tons. Sadly enough. Sigh.

Lament for a Pipe Cleaner

I love my truck. He is tiny and red. I got him my junior year in high school. My dad bought him from the parents of some crazy felon who had done horrible things to the truck. It was missing all its shocks, the windows were tinted so much you couldn’t see out, the gas gauge did nothing but serve as decoration, and the stereo system was entirely gutted.

But I loved him anyway and tried to fix him up. I added some partially effective shocks and got rid of the horrible tint job. The stereo problem remained for a long time and the gas gauge still doesn’t work to this day, but he was like my best friend.

When I moved to college, I had to abandon him for an entire semester and it was very painful. By December I couldn’t take the separation anymore and drove him up to Dallas. In honor of our reunited state, I introduced my beautiful truck to two new friends that would change his life forever: Edgar and Perren.

Edgar was a tiny stuffed beaver. He was very intelligent looking and very menacing at the same time. I dubbed him responsible for all things law related. It would be Edgar’s job to keep the police away, even when I was doing things not necessarily lawful in the eyes of traffic court. He would sit in the middle of the dashboard, pressed up against the glass, always vigilant for signs of The Man.

Perren was different. He was a tiny balled-up orange pipe cleaner with little googly eyes who hung from a piece of wire. He was unique looking, and as such he developed a skill for being very good at not judging others. Perren received the job of hanging from the rear-view mirror and observing traffic. Unlike Edgar, Perren was not active in affecting the traffic; he was simply responsible for it. If you ended up in a traffic jam and were frustrated, you could smack Perren and he would spin around the cab. It was stress relieving for both of you, because Perren loved spinning and never judged your anger.

Together as a unit, the three worked in perfect harmony for many years. It was very sweet. But as time went on, things grew older and started to fall apart. And not just me. By the end of 2003, my beautiful truck had to be rechristened The Truck of Malfunction, because nothing really worked anymore (lights, windshield wipers, gas gauge, speakers, seats, air conditioning), besides the primary function of generally being able to travel from point A to point B on a consistent basis. Which was mostly enough.

But December 2003 also brought another depressing milestone: the retirement of Perren. Alas, while the three had worked together so well for lo these many years, a poor pipe cleaner can only be bashed around a truck so many times before he loses both his googly eyes and becomes unable to fulfill his duties. So now he lives in my desk drawer, relaxing with the other wire-based products, like the staples and paperclips. Edgar still lives in the truck, a little faded, but with the excellent record of only 2 run-ins with John Law in almost 4 years.

For now Edgar is a little lonely, but understands about such things. Thus, for now there is the Lament for Perren, truly the bravest pipe cleaner ever to be held responsible for Dallas traffic. At least until that beautiful day that I find some more crazy eyes and a hot glue gun and return him to service.

Yeah, it’s a strange, magical, and vaguely creepy world whenever you’re in Jason Land.

Job Hunting and the Common Man

“Always get the laziest man to do the job. For he will get it done the quickest so he can continue to be lazy.” - Ryan P.Quirk

I do not make very good first impressions. Never have, more than likely never will. Generally, I come off as surly and angry, or weird and shifty, or fidgety and spastic. It’s all dependent on the time of day you first meet me and the amount of sugar I’ve consumed lately. In most areas of life, this isn’t the worst problem in the world. I get second chances with pretty much anyone who matters, and over time people come to understand or at least tolerate me in normal life. No harm, no foul, even if people think that I (hate them / will mug them / am insane) the first time we meet.

In the world of job hunting and the application process, however, this ain’t the case. First impressions are everything. Which would normally mean I’m completely screwed over and will never find a job and will end up homeless and living under an overpass somewhere, selling week old oranges to the passersby.

Okay, so that may indeed happen, but in the meantime I’ve taken some steps to combat these issues which have plagued me, lo these many years. I share them with you in the hopes that we can grow together and learn from my many, many, oh-so-many mistakes. Here are Jason’s First Four Rules for the Interview Process :

1) Always act very friendly, and lean towards the fidgety/spastic mood during first impressions. This is the least harmful first impression I can make. People won’t hire you if they think you are angry all time or are more than likely a criminal. People will give you a chance if they think you’re insane, though. Never have figured out why. Maybe there’s a fine line between quirky and insane that one can carefully walk on occasion. Playing with something in your hands is good. Bodily ticks and nervous twitches are frowned on.

2) Never make a joke during a job interview. NEVER. I don’t care if they set you up perfectly and seem like a fun person, all buddy-buddy, and even make jokes of their own. Making anything resembling a funny remark is shorthand for “Please stare blankly at me, shuffle your papers around, take a deep breath, sigh heavily, and move on with two quick questions before ending the interview as fast as humanly possible.”

3) Try, as hard as possible, not to fall down during the interview. Additionally, do not knock anything over, run into anything, or fall out of your chair. It looks pretty unprofessional and it’s really hard to maintain a dignified façade when you trip over the doorframe, flailing your arms, and knock over the 4 foot tall plant on your way to shake a guy’s hand. Trust me on this one.

4) Actually answer questions when posed to you. Don’t mull it over in your mind, pinch up your face, go “oh, umm, err, uhhhh,” over and over again, trying to come up with an answer that sounds remotely sane, whilst engaging in an internal dialogue of “say something, what does he want, SAY SOMETHING, he’s staring, you’ve moved into the extremely awkward and overdrawn pause phase and you keep thinking and the pause is getting longer and just say something dammit hurry, he’s getting that ‘oh what have I gotten myself into’ look and I’m so screwed and wait crap say something hurry it up AHHH…” This tends to be viewed as very unprofessional.

So yeah.

In related news, I’m totally in job hunting mode right now. The search has thus far proved fruitless, but I now have an interview lined up for work in the dynamic world that is Target, the bull’s-eye retail megamart. I mean, that’s totally what you look for after spending 4 years getting a BS in computer science from a respectable university, no?

And people call me cynical. Ha!

Editorial

“Of all the joys in life, I think I like nitpicking the most.” – Wally, of Dilbert

This completely sums up my outlook on life. I love editing other people’s papers. It’s the one thing that always puts me in a good mood. Also enjoyed: criticizing bad movies, criticizing good movies, mocking people’s poor fashion choices, and harping on grammatical errors. Criticism is the way to go, in my opinion. And as per that, my opinion is all that matters. See how fabulously that works out?

However, lately I’ve hit a bit of a problem in musical criticism. Because, as we see above, I love to mock other people’s choices. But in the arena of music, I has no room to talk whatsoever. I tend to listen to almost anything, or so it would seem. My musical tastes run so varied that eclectic doesn’t even cover it. I think that owning CDs by: Britney Spears, Dashboard Confessional, DMX, Yo Yo Ma, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs should qualify me for some sort of federal grant for people who can’t make up their minds.

Because it becomes very difficult to answer any questions concerning musical tastes. Not only can I not give a reasonable answer as to what I like most, this puts me in no position to judge other people’s choices.

How can I tell someone that country music is the work of Satan when I’ll listen to Nickel Creek any time of the day? That popular music is consumer driven, well orchestrated corporate marketing ploys when I harbor a secret girl crush on Hilary Duff? That Clay Aiken sucks when…nevermind, Clay Aiken obviously sucks. But the point remains!

While I do love a good dose of hypocriticality now and again (like the new word I invented?) there seems to be something ugly about this sort of musical snobbery.

Which is very strange, since I tend to dress only slightly better than your average vagrant outside Taco Cabana, yet feel no compunction for slagging someone for wearing one of those damn trucker hats. And I can’t write a coherent sentence to save my life (see: every entry on this website) but I’ll cover anything you’ve ever written with half legible comments and slashes in red ink.

So just to summarize, I would relish being a book editor because of my inherent love of breaking down someone else’s work based on my own tastes, but would balk at being a music critic because I feel my lack of taste would disqualify me.

Sometimes, I read over these things I write and I wonder: “this guy graduates college in less than two months?” Ah, the mysteries of life.

The Depths Of My Stupidity

This is the entry that finally answers the age-old question, “exactly how stupid am I?” (With the answer “Very, very, very stupid.” (Sorry if you were hoping for some suspense on the result.))

So, Thursday I was getting ready for class, right? I’m up much earlier than usual, since I have to go get my advisor’s signature and turn in my degree plan (which I totally got done. Am now a real life almost-graduate.). This phases me not, or so I think.

Alert and ready for the day, I put my left shoe on, go for the right one. Strangely, I can’t get my foot in. There’s something impeding the process. After careful consideration and examination, I realize that the fancy gel insole has ripped on top and is sticking to my sock, foiling my attempts to properly apply the shoe.

Brilliant strategist that I am, I come up with the most direct solution: remove the offending insole. Ha! Problem solved, now on with the day. Right? Yeah, no. I missed a very important step here in the process. Removing just the offending insole is not the way to go, you need to get rid of them both. Because if you don’t then you start walking really weirdly.

But did I do this? No, of course not. Unthinking, I go about my business of the day, oblivious to the world. First, I start noticing that I seem to be limping. “That’s weird,” I think to myself. “I must have hurt myself yesterday in Badminton. Oh well.” And continue on with my day, never once thinking about my insole adventure.

Then I began listing to the right whenever I walked. Very noticeably, apparently, since 3 people asked me if I was okay. I was very manly in my response: “Oh, it’s nothing, just a sports injury,” I would say, very nonchalantly. Then I would run into something. Usually a wall, one time a bike rack.

This continues for the entire day and I am mystified as to what the deal is. I don’t feel sore, yet I’m obviously limping. What is going on? Did I pull something, is something numb? I start getting more worried as I’m walking back from work and totally run into a tree that I tried to walk around.

I get back to the room. Go to take off my shoes. As I do, I look down under my desk. There lies the offending insole. Slowly the gears turn, the hamster starts to running, the light begins to dawn…and…oh. That’s why I’ve been a walking disaster zone today. Well then. I suppose it’s good that I still remembered to breathe all day today.

I'm Better Indoors

Sometimes in life, it’s better just to stay in your room. For me, “sometimes” means always. When I go outside, bad things tend to happen. Rarely do embarrassing, painful, or…um… horribly embarrassing things go on when I’m in my room. Despite this knowledge, I went out on three separate occasions on this, my weekend of total rest. Each of these were undertaken for some sort of dire need, either food or project meetings, so the risk was calculated to be worth it.

Sadly, the calculation was mistaken.

The first trip was fine. Nothing horrible happened, save my lip getting stuck to a delicious Rainbow Pop™ that I got from the cafeteria. The pain was worth it, however, as Rainbow Pops™ are one of those things that I love so much that they get their own special allowances for pain.

Emboldened by this successful outing, I made a second trip for food the next day. Around 1:30 in the afternoon on Saturday, I woke up and was hungry. I decided that food would be mine, but didn’t really feel like working for it. So I wander over to Blimpie for a little sandwich action. As I’m coming back, I see a large group of people wandering in my direction. Apparently it is one of those high school recruiting days, as there are hordes of little-ish teenagers and their parents descending on Hughes-Trigg.

Have I mentioned that I hate all children? Because, sadly enough, I do. But teenagers hold a special place in my heart. And that special place is full of even more hate. There are numerous reasons for this. One in particular being what happened during this adventure.

So, I’m headed back to my room, minding my own business. There approaches a small family unit of a mom, dad, and son who seem to be having some sort of argument. I don’t get much of it, but I get the gist. Allow me to recreate:

MOM: (shocked about something) Jeremy! You need to be more respectful. This is a Christian university. They won’t put up with that sort of thing.

JEREMY(one assumes): What-eva, Mom! Look at that guy (points at me)! He is obviously hung-over! And it’s 2:00 in the afternoon! No one cares! Christian university, my ass.

MOM: JEREMY!

Now yes, I was still in my pajamas. And yes, my hair was uncombed and pointing in 5000 directions. And yes, I was unshaven, wearing sandals, glasses askew, and looking down toward the ground with an annoyed expression while rubbing my forehead.

But that does not mean I am hung-over! I am just very lazy. Damn high school kids, trying to give me a bad name. You’ll know when I’m hung-over, by God!

Um, yeah. So that’s it. Actually, on the third time I went out, I fell down very comically in a big pile of leaves outside the engineering school. But really, my exploits of falling down are just getting pretty ludicrous, so we’ll skip that part. Suffice it to say, I should never go outdoors. Ever. We’ll see how that goes.

Madness

“God, I hate that Todd kid soooo much. Please make him make this free-throw or smite him from the face of the Earth. Amen.”

And with that, so begins my descent into March Madness that always hits around this time of year. I spend three days agonizing over selections and then use the next week and a half to question my sanity at the time of picking.

Because, seriously, why did I pick Nevada? I hate Nevada. And I especially hate that Todd kid from Nevada. And yet, I am suddenly forced to stand there and request intercession from God for him. Insanity, right?

Oh! And Texas? What on Earth was I thinking? You never go with Texas! Choking is part of their genetic makeup, no matter what the sport. Everyone knows this. My grandmother who hasn’t been to a sporting event in 42 years knows this. And yet there they sit in my Elite 8. Saints preserve us, my brain is missing.

But I went a very different way this year, in hopes that I could remove some stress from my life. 1) Quit picking Arizona to win it all. You’ll just end up crying and gnashing your teeth in the end. 2) Don’t vote against a team just because you hate one of the players (That one didn’t turn out to be such a good idea, as we see above). 3) Don’t vote for a team just because you think one of the players is cute (although that was an excellent strategy last year).

Alas, these aids did not seem to work, as it’s only the first day and I’m already all discombobulated about the whole thing. Case in point: At the current moment, DePaul is trying to give me a second ulcer by not giving Diener the ball and missing 10 straight free throws. Stop it DePaul, right now. Don’t make me go get God.

But it’s still a great time of year. So much drama, tension and ridiculous color commentary from the sportscasters. That guy totally just said “That’s some nice backdoor action right there.” You can’t make that shit up.

This year there is seemingly much less pressure, since the only pool I’m in is the one for our hall and the entry fee was just one canned good. Not that it really matters, I’m so easily excitable that I’d probably end up throwing things at the TV even if there was no pool. And I really want that DVD player that is the grand prize. Eh, maybe getting the blood up is good for my metabolism. I am much hungrier than usual.

So as the week goes on, think positive thoughts about: Texas not choking (haha), Wisconsin somehow beating a bunch of people (seriously, insanity must run in my family...oh yeah), and Kentucky triumphing over all. Sigh. I need more Rolaids. And possibly a CAT scan.

Rights

In the interest of sparking something resembling controversy, today we shall discuss the idea of gay marriage. And by discuss, I mean that I will ramble on at length and you will have no input, other than what you yell at your computer screen. Deal? Sweet. Let’s begin. Easy part first.

My beliefs: Gay marriage should be allowed. (By marriage, I’m talking an institution with full and equal rights for gay couples that straight couples enjoy. That includes the title ‘marriage’. More on that later.) Additionally, I believe there is no reasonable basis on which to deny this right, in the terms of American civil rights. ‘All men created equal’ and all that jazz.

Simple enough, no?

The arguments against: This is the hardest part about this whole issue, which makes it so difficult to refute, or even understand. What are the arguments that people have against allowing gay marriage? Approximately half the country is opposed to the idea of gay marriage, so there must be some sort of obvious reason, right? Centrally, as far as I can tell (and I’ve done a whole lot of reading on this thing) the main thrust of the argument is that marriage is a sacred (religious or otherwise) institution that should not be degraded by allowing anyone other than a man and a woman engage in it. Example:

“Marriage is a religious institution reserved solely for a man and a woman.”

Or

“Marriage is one of the oldest institutions the world over, is the foundation of society, and has always been between a man and a woman.”

Supporting this argument are two other claims that attempt to bolster the correctness of this view of marriage. Namely: 1) that allowing gay people to be marry is a case of giving special rights to certain individuals and 2) that gay marriage is a fundamentally unsound union. Basically, the purpose of marriage is the creation of children and, by extension, children thrive best in two sex, two parent households.

My argument: Let’s start with the most important thing that people are missing, as I see it: The kind of marriage we are talking about here is in no way religious. We are talking about marriage as seen by the state and federal government, along with public institutions. Allowing gay marriage does not mean that churches will be forced to perform gay unions, or recognize them. Catholic, Methodist, Baptist, whatever, their form of marriage will remain as it always has. The only thing that will change is that the public protections and benefits available to straight married couples will be available to gay ones. That is all. These sort of things include: hospital visitation rights, the ability to adopt the children of a spouse, health benefits for spouses, and inheritance rights.

Again: these rights are in no way religiously affiliated by the conventions of the United States. Right now, a 98 year old man who is a devout Satanist and in prison on a 40 year sentence can get married to a 18 year old agnostic girl he met for the first time today. They never have to live in the same house. The only stipulation (and only in some states) is that the marriage must be consummated. And that they be a man and a woman. Those two being met, every right of marriage is theirs. Religion is not a factor. That’s the whole idea behind civil marriage. They occur by the hundreds every day. Allowing gay marriage would simply make these civil marriages available to gay and lesbian couples. That’s it.

“So why not just set up ‘Civil unions’ and be done with it?”

Because that is shit. Seriously. We need a new name and a new set of rules and regulations for the exact thing that straight people have? No. The rules set up for civil marriage work as they should for straight people and will continue to do so for gay ones. There is no difference at all in a straight and a gay marriage. Two people, consenting adults, wish to form a bond publicly to profess their love and their commitment to each other and society as a whole. Two guys, two girls, or one of each, who cares? The result is the same. Love is love. Creating an underclass institution is patronizing and blatantly against the concept of equal rights for all people.

Whew.

After all that, the rest of the arguments sort of roll together. Marriage has not always been a singular institution between a man and a woman. Throughout time there have been variations on the form. Until the 1950’s, some states outlawed biracial marriages because they violated some tenant of marriage. The state of marriage is set up such that it is most beneficial to society.

Gay marriage in no way hurts anyone. There is no evidence at all that gay families are more likely to break up that straight ones, or that children of gay couples end up worse off than those of straight couples. No where is it said that marriage is created or reliant on procreation. Straight couples are free to have or not have as many kids as they want. Marriage is fundamental unit of stability that is supported by the government, not a child producing concept. Gay marriage will only add to this.

Whether or not you agree with homosexuality or not, you can’t deny civil rights to a group because of their lifestyle. You believe we’re all gonna burn in hell, that’s cool. No skin off me, I’ve made my peace. Your beliefs are your deal. But what we’re talking here are rights that should be available to all human beings. The right to live with the person you love and enjoy life with them like any other couple in America. To be able to create a family and have as normal a life as possible. To be able to see your husband in the hospital after an accident.

It seriously hurts to watch these sort of attacks go on. To have the President of the United States stand up and say that gay people should not be given the same rights as straight people because they don’t meet his standard of what a couple should be. Ugh. I don’t know what else exactly to say, except that I hope this Constitutional amendment thing dies in its tracks very, very soon.

What's Up With the Beavers?

I dread writing this, but so many people have asked me this question in the past week alone that I feel that I should have some sort of stock response prepared. Thus, whenever someone asks, I can just be all “That information is on my website. Begone!” And I will wave my hand in a dismissive manner. I imagine it will save me a lot of time while making me seem even more surly than usual. Two birds – One stone.

(For those of you who don’t know what I’m rambling about: I own a ton of beavers and beaver-related paraphernalia. Stuffed animal beavers, beaver-sporting clothes, ceramic beavers, platinum beavers…etc. They’re all over my room, and I reference them everywhere else. See that url up there? Yeah. So…)

Quit stalling and get to the question. What’s up with the beavers?

It all started when I was but a wee lad in high school, so idealistic and much more of a nerd than I am today. (Quiet you, I make the jokes around here.). I was bored in band practice one day (see? High school band? Very nerdy. More so than…college band…ne’ermind, just leave me be) and was randomly illustrating my music with little cartoons acting out the titles. One such cartoon was of a goofy boy beaver giving a girl beaver a valentine. Who knows why?

It was badly illustrated (I am a horrible artist. I have professional confirmation of that fact. But that’s really a story for another time) but it was vaguely cute, in a “look, some unskilled four-year-old drew a picture” sort of way, and my clarinet partner-in-crime said I should draw more of them for all the music. (Yeah, I played the clarinet in high school too. Back off, we’ve already gone over the nerd part. Y’all just don’t understand my pain.)

Thus, my love/hate relationship with the beaver began. All through high school I drew a series of beavers in random jobs, wacky scenarios and the like. My friends accepted the growing horror with the good humor that inherently comes with being able to tolerate me. Life was good, if strange. Then, my mom bought me a stuffed beaver for my birthday, and that was the beginning of my descent into madness.

Because he was just so cute. I had to have more. And then I did have more. And they were still cute. Life was even better. But slowly, the beavers started taking over. They were everywhere. In the car. On my bed, covering my shelves. On my notes, in my music. And soon other people knew and started supporting my weird addiction. Because finding a beaver related object is something of a minor rarity, when someone I knew saw one they’d pick it up for me. Suddenly, there’s yet another brand new testament to the strangeness that is me.

Soon, people began to see it as less cute and more creepy. “You’re not from Canada, are you?” they’d ask, all suspiciously. And the coincidental double entendre that could be derived out of the moniker “beaverguy” started to heavily affect my life. (It’s never a good idea to send your college applications out with your email address as beaverguy21@hotmail.com. It’s just asking for embarrassing questions.)

And so forth, for the last six years or so of my life. As I sit here right now, I have 3 beavers on my desk, have an IM name that suspiciously sounds like I have a preference for gnawing on wood, and am wearing a fabulous shirt with a beaver who says “Dam,” in an ever-so-clever pun.

Often times I wonder how it all got so out of hand, but I still think they’re very cute. And as it is, beavers can be seen as a sort of metaphor for living a good life: Always be industrious, never let obstacles stand in your way, eat a lot of fiber, if life gives you trees - make dams, etc.

So to recap: I collect beavers. They control my life and bring up strange questions, but I do it anyway because old habits die hard and I’m drawn to them.

….

Seriously, this whole column-thing is really making me out to be a complete wacko. Eh, embrace the madness, I always say.

Oscars and the Geek Inside

I love the Oscars. I don’t care if it fills a thousand stereotypes, I love it all: the prognostication, the political intrigue, the horrible fashion, the overwrought, all-about-me celebrity limelight, and the bad jokes. It fills me with a special, ridiculous feeling of happiness to watch over-hyped fame-whores wander around a red carpet in outfits that cost more than my college tuition and then go on to battle it out for tiny gold statuettes.

On an entirely different note, I am a huge geek. Huge isn’t even a strong enough word, really. I have seen every Star Wars movie at least 4 times. I down science fiction books like most people down Coke. If hard pressed, I’d probably admit to liking books more than people. Not only that, I am a computer programmer in the classic sense, complete with the glasses, the bad hair (and skin), along with the inability to function socially. I’d totally own pocket protectors if there was still a market for that sort of thing.

Do these two admissions really have anything in common? Besides exposing some of the more painful sides of my personality to the general internet-reading public, no, of course not. But for the purposes of moving this column along, indulge me for a bit. Because this year the Oscars could have easily been renamed “Praise be to The Lord of the Rings” without changing the content of the ceremony in any significant way.

And The Lord of the Rings? Is right up there on the geek scale. Really, it has its own special level on the scale that transcends normal geekiness to a form of über-geekiness so powerful that it can actually form a vacuum of anti-coolness for miles around. When popular people feel a cold breeze and shudder for no apparent reason, it’s really because they passed a hardcore Tolkien fan.

Luckily for my sanity and the sake of all the cool people around me, I am on the relatively low end of the über-scale. I still read the LotR books at least once a year, but I have never endeavored to learn any of the languages. I never wrote any of the really bad mass-produced fan fiction on Middle Earth, but I have read a lot of it. (Really, a 4 on the scale: intensely geeky, may cause temporary ostracism from one’s peers, but never becomes a long term destructive force. Mating is still possible, although very rare.)

But today the world (and by ‘the world,’ I mean ‘The Academy of Motion Pictures, Whatnot and Somesuch”) joined me in the high levels of geekitude and gave 11 awards to the LotR film series, winning everything it was nominated for. And it even won for things that it had absolutely no right to. Film Editing? It was over three hours long and ended at least 6 times. Best Song? Annie Lennox creeps me out in a very special way and I’m just astounded that people don’t flee from her at every available opportunity (Although I really liked the LotR entry last year for best song, so I can forgive this one, kind of.) (No, scratch that, Annie Lennox is too terrible.)

In any case, I am way too into the LotR movie series and associated industries. And apparently so is the upper-class of Hollywood. So I had a nice night, seeing all the people from the DVD documentaries give their little speeches with their fresh-won gold statuettes of victory. Not that I watched the acceptance speeches. Those things always make me uncomfortable so I have to leave the room. There’s just something so strange and off-putting about thanking all these people while people pretend to be interested.

Oh, right. Topic. Yay Oscars. Yay, Lord of the Rings. Yay, I am a big geek. And apparently very, very gay. Hmm. I probably should have thought this thing out a bit before I sat down to write.

Grace Under Badminton

I am not, nor have never I been, a graceful person. And, more than likely, I never will be. Usually this only affects me in minor ways. I trip a lot, fall down a lot, and generally make a damn fool of myself all over the place. Which is cool, you know, I’m at peace with it. No horrible results and I end up with a nice story to tell the next day, to the neverending amusement my friends, who like stories in which I fall down. They’re an interesting bunch

On the other hand, there are the times of ridiculous injury from my lack of grace that are less “haha, funny” and more “haha, damn yo, that sucks.” Over the course of my life, I have broken my nose on three separate occasions, all as a relatively young child. Back then I used to tend to fall down flights of stairs unlike now, when I just fall down for no apparent reason on flat surfaces.

Later in life, practicing football, I seriously broke my left leg, requiring a cast for 4 months and another month of little to no standing. Following that incident, I took the stance that, considering my inability to not die during physical activity, I would just bow out of all sports involving physical contact.

This was a good strategy, it seemed, and I didn’t have any real tough problems for a long while. Then, my senior year in high school, I decided that it would be a good idea to try out for the track team. I am a fast runner, when the occasion requires, and it really doesn’t require physical contact. I would be fine.

On the first night of practice (on the first sprint, for that matter) I took ten good strides, fell flat on my face and skidded across the track for ten feet or so. The result: the majority of the skin on the left side of my body staying behind on the ground that night, a huge bill for bandages, antibiotics, and two weeks of wandering around school looking like…well, like I had skidded down a track for ten feet. The scar from the incident still remains with me today, the three scars actually, along with a secondary mental scar that indicated that all sports, physical contact or otherwise, should be struck from the list of things that Jason is allowed to do. Refine “sports” to “physical activites of any kind” and you might have an idea of my mindset.

College brought on a whole new set of graceless injuries that are so numerous I’m wondering if there’s really a point to writing them all down. To save time, we’ll go with the list:

Chipped front tooth (my inability to high step march)
Near gouging of my left eye (ran over by bass drum)
Severely burned right hand (microwaves, soup and a klutz)
Extended fall down the steps of Dallas Hall (most embarrassing moment of my entire life.)
Etc (I’m too depressed to continue, really)

All this rambling on to say that, despite my inclination towards never leaving the room or walking around, I took up a new sport this semester. Badminton. Seriously, y’all don’t know what you’re missing. It’s frickin’ awesome. Small rackets, tiny little thing to hit (wonderfully called “the shuttlecock”), a little court, and it’s all indoors.

Fast-paced and full of ridiculous rules, Badminton is the bastard child of tennis and volleyball, only you don’t have to worry about fast moving rubber balls, hot sand, or crazed fans. Instead, you worry about taking a shuttlecock smash to the face and losing an eye, hitting yourself with your own racket, your partner hitting you with their racket, or the hard gym floor when you dive for a shot.

Because I dive for shots a whole lot. Okay, “dive for a shot” is a nice way of saying “fall down after lunging for a shot and losing my balance,” but the fact still remains. Um. Yes. Anyway. I look very dedicated, and no serious injuries have resulted yet. My knee is very sore and I bruised my wrist last week, but these are minor considerations in the hunt for badminton glory.

Wellness class has suddenly taken a competitive turn and I’ve got the fever to dominate. As the professor predicted on the first day, we have developed our own badminton nemeses, whom we constantly battle for bragging rights and small monetary wagers. And while I am near the bottom of the class in terms of badminton winning percentages, I’m still always very psyched to go out there and try my luck. Because until the day comes in which I am horribly disfigured in a shuttlecock related catastrophe: (and that day will come, of course. It’s only a matter of when.) I love this game.

Permanent Accessory

Glub, glub.
One Shot. Pour.

Glub, glub.
Two Shot. Pour.

Snap, fizz.
Coke. Pour.
Stir.

Quick drink.
Wince.
Throat on fire.

Another quick drink.
Wince.
Throat on fire.
Hmm. Must get better soon, right?

Repeat as needed.

[20 minutes later]

Face is flushed.
Tendency to smile a lot.
But that’s my normal expression, right? Right.
Bottom of my drink.
Damn.

Glub, glub.
One Shot. Pour.

Glub, glub.
Two Shot. Pour.

Hmm.

Glub, glub.
Three Shot. Pour.

Snap, fizz.
Coke. Pour.
Stir.

Quick drink.
Less wincing.
Must be good stuff.

Sharp turn back towards the action.
Whoops, little dizzy.
Definitely good stuff.

[20 minutes later]

Dancing despite knowledge that I should never dance.
Perhaps I was wrong all this time about my dancing skills.
Am obviously a much better dancer than I remember.
Fantastic, really. Could be on television.

Damn.
Drink is gone.
Dancing must stop, sadly.
To the kitchen.

Hmm.
Shot glass presents difficulties, as there seem to be two.
Will not be deterred, am excellent judge of shot sizes, do not need special measuring device – that’s why I have eyes.

Glubglubglubglubglubglub.

Perfect. Should be bartender, really.

Quick drink.
Woah.
[thinks]
Oh yes. Coke.

Snap, fizz.

Hmm, doesn’t taste very strong.
Hmm, doesn’t taste like anything, really.
Oh well.
The dance floor calls.

[probably 20 minutes later]

“Ha. You’re drunk.”
“Heh. No, you’re drunk.”
Am indignant.
How could this completelydrunk person dare to say that I am drunk.
Drunken fool.
Whoops. fellover.
Okay, perhaps am slightly inebriated.
But still know the word inebriated.
That means more drinking is still allowed.

[even later]

I love you.
I love that chair.
I love everyone.
I love my drink.

Sigh. Drink is gone.
Feel bad for the drink.
Hmm, quick shift in emotion – could possibly be the alcohol talking.
Vaguely remember usually hating most everyone.
No, no. Surely not. Am fun-loving person all the time.

Still, need a drink.
Kitchen seems very far away.
Have sent someone off as my emissary.
Love him. Who was he?
Ooh, love this song. Perhaps some more dancing…

[yeah, later]

Ah, sweet nectar of life. Ever so tasty.
Am discussing something with somebody, but all details seem to be very slippery. Seems to be some sort of delay between mind and mouth. Is this normal? Will have to test this.

Crap. Definitely did not mean to say that.
Perhaps it was not heard or understood.

Nope.
This could be trouble.
Drinking will help ease the mind for now.

[much later]

Hmm. Must get home.
Where is home?
[thinking]
Hmm.

Oh yes. I remember now.
But how to get there?
Hmm.

Hey! A car.
Car = road. Perhaps home is down the road.
I’ll follow it.
Hmm. Oh yes. Sidewalk.
Excellent.

[who knows, really]

Erm. Where am I?
Bright lights, lots of white.
Hospital?
Heaven?
No. There’s toilet.
Bathroom.
Yes, definitely a bathroom.
Powers of deduction still intact.

Thought is less comforting as urge to vomit overwhelms.
Oh well.
Kind of remember an excellent party.
Totally worth it.

[5 hours later]

Totally not worth it.
Will never drink again.
Swear to it upon this dirty towel and this December edition - Vanity Fair.
Alcohol will never pass by these lips again.

[Roughly 7 days later]

Glub, glub.
One Shot. Pour.

Glub, glub…

Annoy Me

I’m writing this thing at 3:00 in the morning, because today has been weird and I have a test tomorrow and am all kinds of wired, nervous, and frustrated. So it’s gonna be short and make little sense. Sort of like Gary Coleman. (Yeah, I’m coming from a very strange headspace right now.)

There are a whole lot of things out there that annoy me to no end:

Pets in clothes,
People who use the word ‘impetus’,
Bad drivers,
The phrase ‘lol’,
Stupid drunks,

and Carrot Top, just to name a few. But there is one thing in the world that drives me absolutely nuts. I become filled with a seething rage and feel the need to throw things. Not only that, but strangely enough, I am the only person in the world bothered by it. It kind of sucks, because I know it shouldn’t be such a big deal in my mind, but I just can’t get over it.

Why are there big orange signs on the highway that say “Guardrail Damage Ahead”?

Okay, that’s it. But, seriously? It drives me nuts. What possible purpose could they serve?

“Hey, if you were thinking about driving off the road soon, don’t do it up here, ‘cause there ain’t no guardrail to keep yo’ ass on the highway.”

Or maybe it’s the exact opposite:

“Dude, if you were thinking about taking a header off the road, why not wait a second and do it up here where the guardrail is already damaged, save us some time?”

WHY?!?

It’s insane. The Texas government is paying people to go around, find places with guardrail damage, put up warning signs and then head off on their merry way. Where is the logic?

“Why fix the damage when instead we could put up a sign alerting the world to the problem that will have no bearing on them at all, except in case of an accident, at which point the sign really only adds more variables into the equation?”

You can tell I’m strangely bitter and crazy about the whole thing. I can’t explain why it annoys me so much. It’s just another ridiculous thing that will never be explained, like why people yawn, or how many licks it takes to get to the center of a really bad kind of sucker. But it will continue to eat away at me so long as I live.

So there you go, yet another strange and creepy tidbit that makes up my insanity. I keep telling people that it’s not a good idea to try and understand why I tick, because you start finding out things like this. I’ll stop here, before I get to the grammar and spelling annoyances and alienate everyone I ever knew. (One quick one: Definitely. Definite - LY. Definitely. Say it with me.)

All right, I’m out.

Bitter

Have I mentioned lately that I hate February? Because I do. So much so that it causes me physical pain on occasion (and it’s not just the freezing rain). It’s always cold, wet, and dreary. Classes become a huge drag and midterms appear out of nowhere to suck the life out of me, like a large life-sucking machine. And I always get sick for at four days somewhere around the 21st. But no other occasion in this hateful month causes me more pain than everyone else’s favorite day: Feb. 14th, the dreaded V-day.

Every year the stores take on that tell-tale pink-and-red hue and I start to die a little inside. Soon, there are hearts everywhere, the jewelry stores kick the advertising into overdrive (“Buy her a ring or she’ll dump your sorry ass, you miscreant.”), and chocolate prices skyrocket. Meanwhile, I slowly develop a new ulcer and up my stockholding in Rolaids. Before you know it, the little themes of love are everywhere: hanging from the ceiling in the student center and The Market, on my RA’s door (“Give us money and we’ll give your special someone a painful, artificially flavored beverage that tastes suspiciously like goat urine!”), and even in the law library (In the form of heart shaped comment cards. Sigh.)

I’m not really sure why I hate the day so much. Do I really begrudge my fellow human beings one day of the year in which to honor their loved ones with a romantic gesture and/or a tastefully written Hallmark card? In a single word: Yes. I have apparently been in training to be a bitter old man for the last 4 years of my life. Soon you will see me in my room grumbling about the damn kids with their damn loud music and their damn lack of respect for common decency, dammit.

Crap, I already do that. Apparently, I am that bitter old man.

Moving on.

It’s not that I hate hearts, or people in love. I don’t long for Cupid’s head on a pike. It’s not the gross commercialism that pervades the very essence of Valentine’s Day (right there on par with Christmas and Arbor Day as most media-saturated yearly event that does not involve Janet Jackson’s breast) It’s not even the fact that I’m currently alone (in true bitter-old-man style). I didn’t liked it when I was all relationship-y and the hate endures through the single life too.

Hmm, suddenly I’m at a loss for an actual reason for the focused hatred. I fear for the cohesiveness of the column.

Wait, I got something. I just hate the message it sends. You’re not complete if you aren’t with someone. Instead of the normal pressure to pair up (the desire not to be alone at the key times in your life: the major holidays, your eventual death, and the first time you beat level 25 of Tetris) you get the pressure that you’re missing out on the fundamental driving force behind life, happiness, and capitalism. Which could arguably be true, but it’s not like it’s a do-it-now-or-die-alone situation. I’ve got lots of time to decide what I want to do, who I want to be with and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let the greeting card industry guilt me into something just so they can continue their quest to encapsulate every possible human emotion into a pithy quotation that fits into a 5×6 envelope.(For the loss of a beloved pet on Valentine’s Day: Unlike your cat, my love for you will never die…)

So in conclusion, screw Valentine’s Day.

And on a completely unrelated note, I’ve started my Significant Other Search of 2004 (still cleverly nicknamed SOS2004). The ad:

WM, 22, 5'9’', 148 lb, blue eyes, blondish hair, very quiet, occasionally witty, not too bright, sarcastic (although-no-one-can-tell), and less than graceful seeks someone who: recognizes the majesty of the beaver, the brilliance of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and the savory nature of Dr Pepper. Must be okay with my eccentric geekiness, my LotR addiction, like to dance, and have a healthy sense of humor. Winos, derelicts, and lawyers need not apply. Actually, scratch the last sentence. Go ahead and apply. There’s no time like the present.

Intro With Breasts

Guess what? I'm now an opinion columnist. Behold the amazing power of the internet. Actually, I guess it's more behold the power of Jason to do anything that is not: finding an apartment, finding a job, doing homework, or anything else productive. Frank has seduced me into his webpage of lies and tabloid like practices with promises of fame, fortune, and world domination.

But it turns out you also have to find things you have an opinion about to be a columnist. I made up a list of things that I have opinions on, but they all seemed pretty boring. So I came up with something much more racy and topical: Breasts! I actually have very little in the way of an opinion on breasts. I have nothing against them, per se, but I definitely don't see what the big deal is. This delightful bit of insight into the mind of Jason brings me to the opinion portion of today's column: Why is there such a big hoopla about Janet Jackson's breast, in The Halftime Debacle That Scandalized a Nation?

See, I was actually watching the halftime show, wondering if they'd actually sing a song that came out within the last two years, when the alleged 'boob showage' occurred. Justin Timberlake had finally managed to come up with one vaguely recent song (Rock Your Body or some such equally ridiculous beatboxing gibberish) and I was finally ready to switch back to the Queer Eye marathon. Suddenly, The Event That Shocked A Nation went down before my eyes. My entire reaction (which comprised 0.2 seconds of my life) went exactly like this: "Huh. I think Janet Jackson might have just flashed me. I wonder if they have gotten around to waxing the unibrow off that poor straight guy yet." Click.

Two hours later, people will not freaking shut up about The Tragedy That Will Linger Forever. "Won't someone please think of the children?! They may have seen a breast with a piece of metal strategically covering the naughty bits," said the entire American population apparently.

Now, I'm sorry to all the people in America who are not aware, but I'm willing to give you incredible odds that no one was forever traumatized by The Wardrobe Malfunction That Will Echo Across Time. Because if your child was watching the half-time at the Superbowl I think it follows that they have probably seen at least some MTV in their lifetime. And if they've seen some MTV, then they've seen the new Britney Spears video, Toxic, (because it is on continuous loop there these days) in which she wears nothing but body glitter and clever CGI animation for huge periods of time. And if they've seen that, Janet Jackson's breast has gotta be pretty low on the scale of Cool Smutty Things We've Seen Lately.

Despite this fact, I will continue to be barraged with in depth analyses of the event, microsecond by microsecond, along with probing questions about the destruction of the moral fabric of society and the downfall of television vis a vis the decline of Western Civilization as we know it. Seriously, ya'll, it was a breast. Shown for 1.7 seconds. Yeah it was kinda creepy and metal-looking, but look at all the good it has wrought: It gave me my first column topic.