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Picture testing. Is that not a most awesome hat? 

Night, Lights, Georgia, Whatever.

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

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

Seriously, what on earth is this song about?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Revealing Insane Insecurites in the First Post

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

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

Then the slow stalking through the rain.

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

Way to ruin my life, Levis.

Speech Therapy

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

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

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

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

Because, oh yeah.

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

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

That’s normal, right?

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

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

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

Sigh.

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

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

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

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

[In walks Jason’s boss]

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

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

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

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

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

Boss [confused]: What are you doing?

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

Boss: There! What was that!

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

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

[Jason hands them over.]

Boss: Thanks.

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

[Jason dies]

Training Day

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

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

…

…

…

So score.

Right?

Not so fast.

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

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

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

Oh, but just wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve come a long way indeed.

I miss the carnival.

Old School

[Hey. I’ve been working like crazy the past week and it’s only getting worse. But to show that I’m not abandoning y’all forever, I present a very old piece that I wrote back when I was a sophomore in college. It pains me to even read it (God, I didn’t think it was possible but I was even more of a dork back then), but out it goes anyway. It was originally part of a series, but it stands on its own here.]

Subject: Wherein I Discuss Philosophy With a Dinosaur

Date: Thursday, March 22, 2001 11:57 PM

Ok, so we're back. This week we discuss the importance of not trusting doctors.

So I attempt to drive back to school on Sunday. This is not the easiest task since:

1) We were up far too late into the night Saturday.

2) I seemed to have developed a horribly persistent strain of a stomach virus.

3) The gas gauge on my truck no longer is in service, thus I must guess when I think it will soon stop running due to lack of fuel.

4) My radio refused to pick up anything other than the Southern Baptist Sermon station.

Despite these difficulties I still managed to get all the way back here. It was interesting to say the least. However, upon my return, the stomach virus decided that I wasn't paying enough attention to it, so it proceeded to mount a full scale invasion of every single organ in my body, not content only with my stomach. Thus, I found myself in the throes of pure horror as classes were once again starting and I was confined mostly to the bathroom and the bed. (I did manage to write two small letters and go to two classes anyway, though. Aren't I the trooper?) Unfortunately I am a bit behind in classes (some bitter trip involving basketball and several depressing losses may have contributed to this) so missing more class wasn't really a good idea. But no, the sick mind of fate decided that I should enjoin the toilet rather than the textbook. This unfortunate turn of events reached its most unfortunate peak around Tuesday when I could no longer stand on my own power. So I turned to our wonderful Health Care Center to treat my illness with efficiency and knowledgeableness. HAHAHAHAHA! Lets all just take a collective moment to laugh at my complete and total naivety and ignorance.

Caught your breath yet? Ok, I'll continue.

So I walk (well 'walk' isn't the right word, it was more like a staggering drunken stumbling dance in which I almost collapsed several times, drawing all sorts of odd looks) over to the Health Care Center, which for efficiency's sake shall hereunto be referred to as The Building Which Provides Neither Health nor Care and Resembles One of Torquemada's Interrogation Rooms (or TBWPNHCROTIR). I arrive, approach the front desk and am immediately told to 'just hold [my] pretty little horses there' because the receptionists are all very busy trying to get all their orders for Shlotsky's straight over the phone to a guy who doesn't quite 'speak the English'. Thus, I am bodily relegated to a nearby wall as if I am some type of inanimate object. After continents drift and reform, the north star once again changes from Polaris to Vega, and I develop the ability to move things with my mind, I'm finally approached and questioned as to why I am there. It was exactly like one of those old prison movies with the bright lights and the threat of violence, only there was no good cop to speak of. When they determined that I indeed posed no threat to their little centre of power, they point me in the general direction of a doctor's office, with the admonition that he isn't there yet, and they're not quite sure when they might expect him back. I'm able to find the waiting room but immediately must again get up and perform my little dance of the infirmed so that I may find a bathroom for the simple reason that my virus hates me. All this is despite the fact that I haven't eaten a thing since five Oreos on Saturday night. Well, I get back to the waiting room inside TBWPNHCROTIR and take deep breaths, looking for a doctor. Mountains erode. Ice caps melt. I comprehend physics problems. Finally a doctor approaches. He directs me into his observation room, which resembles a medieval blacksmith's shoppe. After several murmurings of 'oh yeah, that's not good' and 'does that hurt? How about now?' he decides that, yes I am sick, as is indicated by the no standing up straight and the constant throwing up. So to remedy this he prescribes some medicine called Promethazine.

---SIDEBAR---

Never take a medicine that is named after the guy who stole fire from the gods and was severely punished. Its just asking for trouble.

---END SIDEBAR---

Thus I am directed now to the pharmaceutical section of TBWPNHCROTIR. I sit in line. Rainforests whither and regrow. My third great-grandchild is born. I develop a unified field theory. Finally, someone approaches. I am subjected to several insane IQ tests to determine if I can actually understand the directions 'Take one every six hours'. Then came the admonitions.

This drug will cause:

1) Incredible sleepiness. Do not operate heavy machinery and that means cars too.

2) Dehydration. Drink the equivalent of four Great Lakes of water every two hours. Or you'll die. Badly.

3) Vision changes. If everything gets really blurry, that's ok.

4) Extreme sensitivity to light. You might want to huddle in the darkness for a few days. Or buy some SPF 4000 sunblock and wear a blindfold.

This drug may (in rare cases) cause:

Muscle stiffness, weakness, restlessness, difficulty speaking, mild hallucinations, trembling, shaking, dizziness, lip smacking, uncontrollable movements, skin discoloration, and/or nausea. Still want to take it?

Somehow (I'm really not sure how) I vacated TBWPNHCROTIR and returned to my dorm around 4:00, four days after my entry into that horrible place. I guess I was without my normal limited rational thought, so I went ahead and took the medicine and crawled to my bed, against my usually better judgment. Indeed the medicine makes you sleepy. Comatose is more like it. I wake up at 7:45 without the concept of time passing. I attempt to stand up and literally crumple to the floor like an aluminum can in the path of a charging rhinoceros.(Dizziness? Check.) My roommate comes in and asks if I'm ok. My response: "Mlepk, nosh toombs eckerd." (Difficulty speaking? Check.) Roommate: What's with you smacking your lips? You thirsty? (Check.) I return to the bed, although it takes a long time, since I have no arm strength and my left leg really isn't responding to mental commands. (Muscle stiffness and weakness? Double Check.) Then things get interesting. Actually I can't vouch for this but my friend from band keeps bringing it up, so I guess it really happened. Matt came over to inquire as to my spring break and found me in bed holding a conversation by myself, although at the time I insisted that Barney the purple dinosaur was in the room. He tried to explain that he was only on the TV, but I could not be assuaged. (Mild hallucinations? Oh yeah, CHECK.) After determining that I was indeed sick and under a doctor's supposedly informed care, he left with the admonition to get better and to stop arguing a Cartesian philosophy to a dinosaur, they just don't get the concept of 'I think therefore I am'. Eventually in the middle of the night this must have passed and I awoke semi-lucid but still really dizzy and without motor skills. Since TBWPNHCROTIR is only open until 7:30, I persuade my roommate (a really really great guy, especially since he's probably caught whatever it is that has destroyed me by now) to get me some water and I attempt to get some sleep. Alas, finally the restlessness has kicked in (CHECK) and my mind, surprisingly clear, refuses to shut off and I'm subjected to deep thoughts I'd rather not think about while viciously nauseous (The bill? Oh, no you mean, the CHECK!). Morning comes. When called, TBWPNHCROTIR responds thusly: 'Well then, you shouldn't take that anymore.' After a scream you probably heard where you live, I calm down enough to ask when I can expect these symptoms to pass. Theoretically, everything but the restlessness should quickly end (which, to their credit, I guess they did, after NINETEEN HOURS!) but given my first reaction, it would be best if I didn't try anything new, just lots of liquids and rest. Which I did, and wouldn't you know it, its Thursday night and I'm practically 84% fine. As opposed to the .017% I was before, this is just great, although I still failed my physics quiz (yeah you try studying when a dinosaur keeps spouting Hobbes at you). But things can only get better this semester, right? Right? Sure.

Keeping the World Safe

One fashion show at a time

I always knew it would come to this someday. It was only a matter of time until the day came that I would don the blue blazer and tie, taking my rightful place in the warren of history as a security guard for the largest fashion show in Texas.

Okay, so it would be a bit more accurate to say that never in my wildest nightmares did the thought of such a thing ever cross my mind. But still, the fact remains that for a week, I was indeed the first and last line of defense for Dallas’ grandest fashion expo.

I know some of you may be wondering “Why, Jason, would someone need a security guard at a fashion show?”

Still others may ask “And why, Jason, would they pick you to do it, seeing as you are a 140 lb weakling who tends to fall down without provocation? (no offense, of course.)”

To question one, I say “Bah, don’t ask me. Probably something to do with models and their creepy fans.”

To question two, I respond “None taken. I tried to explain my falling down tendencies beforehand, but they seemed to think I was definitely the man for the job. And anyways, who am I to turn down cash?”

So that’s how my life went last week. I was stationed at a door and ruthlessly questioned anyone who came in it thusly: “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a badge?”

I know it seems harsh, grilling perfectly innocent-seeming people like that, but that fashion wasn’t going to secure itself. Plus, I got to sit on a kick-ass high stool, so’s I would look much more menacing once I could swing my legs underneath my seat like a 6 year-old.

I think I was pretty effective, overall, seeing as no one reported any fashion emergencies on my watch.

There was only one minor snag in the entire week. See, since I had to sit at my station all day long (lest some un-badged, non-fashionista sneak by my watchful glare and get on a runway or something) I always kept a bottle of water with me to keep myself hydrated and alert. This proved to be a problem on my last day, as when I reached down one time to grab said water bottle, I leaned a bit too far off my kick-ass high stool, missed the water bottle, and slammed my head, face-first mind you, into the carpet.

So I had to finish up my tour with a huge carpet burn covering the right side of my face. I tried to pass it off as the result of a tussle with a fashion show law breaker, but I don’t think I made many converts. It’s hard to make up a convincing scenario in which someone tries to sneak into a fashion show and ends up battling with a tiny security guard. It also didn’t help that the woman who gives out the badges saw me fall and would start cackling madly whenever I started in on my version of the story.

Oh well. I get to go back at the end of June to secure some other kind of show, and that’s sure to be even more fun than a barrel full of fashionable monkeys. I’ll keep you updated.

So Clown College was Out of the Question?

I walked across the stage, shook the dean’s hand, and picked up my degree. After that it was all over except for the pictures. Time to start up with real life, no more playing around. Am now a serious adult with serious career plans

The next day at 9:30 in the morning I made it to my first day of work.

“Alright, you’ll be running the Human Foosball Table. It’s pretty self explanatory. Now help me set up the rest of the carnival.”

Yes that’s right, four years, 137 credit hours, 24 thousand dollars worth of student loans, and one computer science degree later I’ve officially entered the American workforce as a carnie.

Now, it’s not as glamorous as it initially sounds. It’s not all high salaries and free cotton candy. No, there’s much to-do with the rolling and unrolling of gigantic inflatable rides, yelling strange, made-up catch phrases at small children (most noticeably “low to the ground is your friend,” and “No vicious throwing!”), as well as becoming incredibly sunburnt.

And come to think of it, I still haven’t gotten any cotton candy, free or otherwise.

(A small aside here. I’ve often complained about my facial features and how they lend me a very shifty and untrustworthy look. Long ago I realized this was because of my very deep-set eyes. Few people believed me, but now I have irrevocable proof: That incredible sunburn from above left me looking like I wore goggles all day out in the sun. Because, you see, my jutting brow provides such shade for my eyes that I have two perfect white ovals around my eyes in the center of my very bright red face. It’s a beautiful time to be Jason.)

I have, however, learned many important lessons in the past two weeks.

1. You should always ask how many people will be staffing any carnival you’ll be working. If the answer is “Just the two of us,” and the person answering is even smaller than yourself, run away as fast as possible. Especially if you weigh 140 pounds and there is an 800 pound inflatable slide waiting in a nearby truck.

2. Exactly how one should hammer a huge metal stake into the ground. (Answer: Very carefully, so as not to take a wild swing with the sledge hammer, miss said stake, thump into the ground, lose your balance, and fall head over heels onto the ground. While a group of 15 teenagers watch you. Otherwise it’s just tacky.)

3. If asked to work carnival games, be very specific in your answer. Always include the proviso “I prefer not to work any games in which children with incredibly horrible aim and sadistic natures are given air rifles and asked to shoot over stacks of cans that I will have to stand two feet away from and then restack continuously for a 4 hour stretch.” Trust me, this will save you much grief, not to mention physical pain and will allow you to avoid having to use the phrase “Oh no, my eye is fine, my vision is slowly returning,” twice in the course of any given day.

And that, my friends, is just the tip of the iceberg. To think I once longed for the freedom that adult life would bring. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go get ready for my next exciting adventure in the real world. Which reminds me of the last tip of the day: if ever asked the question “Would you mind wearing an animal costume?” be very clear in your enunciation of the words “Oh Hell no.”

Public Indecency

(In honor of my graduatin’, I’m doing a retrospective of the most memorable things that happened to me in college.)

There are some days that you’ll remember for your whole life. Often these are great times that you want to crystallize in your mind forever and stand out as the best times of your whole existence. Others are days in which you manage to publicly humiliate yourself so many times that you look back and wonder how you survived the day without combusting into a pile of embarrassed ashes.

Guess which kind of day I’ll be talking about today.

So it was midway through my first semester sophomore year and I was taking 19 hours of pure engineering, math, and science, along with marching band and work. To say that I was stretched a little thin would be the greatest of understatements. Overall, it wasn’t horrible though, I was a wiz at time management back then.

The bad thing was, I had 3 midterms scheduled for the same day. Back to back to back. And the day before I had gone through a grueling band rehearsal followed by 5 hours that night at the law library. I was in no condition to study for anything, but I soldiered through anyway, staying up way too late, fueled by massive amounts of Dr Pepper.

Sadly the buzz did not carry through and I ended up oversleeping the next morning. I woke up 10 minutes before the first test and freaked out. I clothed myself as fast as humanly possible and ran from my basement room up the stairs. On the top of the stairs, I slipped a little and ran into the wall. Catching myself on the railing, I barely paused and kept running. This turned out not to be the best course of events.

Had I stopped to examine my situation, I would have noticed that I had caught the back pocket of my jeans on the metal that fastens the railing to the wall. Yeah, that didn’t happen, so instead, as I ran up and out of the stairwell, I hear this tremendous RIIII-IIIP.

I look down and realize that I have the back of my pants near my knees and the majority of my Snoopy-boxers-covered ass is exposed.

Simultaneous with this realization, comes the additional realization that my first exam has already started 4 minutes ago. Using the keen powers available to my caffeine-addled brain, I decide that there is no time to go back and change, I must get to this test. So off I run through campus, minus the back of my trousers, to take a test that I’m 10 minutes late for.

I get to the test, take it with only a few odd looks thrown my way, and speed off to the next. I get a lot more weird looks for this one, as I must traverse the whole of the engineering building. Engineers, by choice of profession, are not used to seeing someone bereft of the majority of their pants in their vicinity. But I have thick skin and ignore the laughs, I have a test to take.

Two down, one to go. The last one is in Dallas Hall, the main building on campus. This means I’ve got to pass through the main quad, by the fountain, and up the huge staircase of Dallas Hall in my current, publicly indecent state. By this point I’m pretty much at the end of my rope.

This is indeed confirmed by my miniature nervous breakdown that occurs a few minutes later during the calculus 3 test.

I look over the test, recognize absolutely nothing on the entire thing and come to the conclusion that I have more than likely just failed three tests consecutively, all while my ass is on display for all to see. I give a little yelp of hysterical laughter and try to finish as much of the test as I can.

Finally I am done and wander out of the hall. For better or worse, I tell myself, it is done. I feel a great weight is lifted, and do a little victory dance which entails a little jump in the air at the end. Sadly, the little jump occurs right at the top of the steps outside Dallas Hall. I trip, fall, roll, and otherwise just bite it all the way down the first half of the stairs, finally catching myself on the railing where the stairs even out. This is only a minor victory, because as I am pulling myself up, I slip again and roll down the rest of the steps. This is officially the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to me, and of course it happened whilst I was still missing the backside of my pants.

And thus ended the most painful and ridiculous day of my entire life to date. Because after that, I refused to leave my room for anything. I mean, seriously, after 4 hours like that, you don’t go outside again unless you’re looking for a bolt of lightning to take you away from it all. Which, looking back on it, might not have been a bad idea, on the whole.

Artistic Sensibility

In honor of my graduatin’, I’m doing a retrospective of the most memorable things that happened to me in college. (This upcoming story is entirely true, by the way, not exaggerated in the least.)

In my sophomore year, for my art perspective (well-rounding courses that you are required to take to complete your degree), I took Intro to Studio Drawing. I figured it couldn’t be too hard, plus I took three years of art in high school – I should be fine. And it might even be fun. I mean, drawing = fun, right?

Oh, silly naïve Jason.

I hadn’t factored in the fact that I sucked at art in high school. Damn all those grades for completion rather than talent. A false sense of security is no one’s friend, in the school of the arts. Suffice it to say I was pretty bad at drawing. Not horrible (or so I thought), but bad enough that I definitely started to look on drawing class with something resembling dread.

Approximately once every two weeks or so, we would have Critique Day, wherein everyone in class would put up everything they drew from that week in a small gallery. The professor would then come around and (shockingly) critique what we had done and tell us what we should work on for the upcoming week.

I don’t know exactly what I did to the guy, but my professor hated everything I ever drew. With a fiery passion. I mean, yeah I was bad, but this guy was in a whole other league. He seemed to take my lack of talent as a personal affront to both his profession and himself. So these critiques were always a fun ride, for me.

On the night before the third critique, I had something resembling an inspiration and drew, what I thought, was a really good picture – a close up portrait of a guy in deep shadow. For once I was actually excited to put this thing up and hoped that maybe the professor might toss me something resembling a compliment.

The day dawns, I set everything up. Critique begins:

[Jason is standing beside his artwork next to Bob, another student in the class. The professor is just finishing his critique of Bob’s work]

Prof: So all in all, you’ve made a lot of progress. Keep up the good work. [turns to Jason] So what do we have here...

[Professor peers at Jason’s work. He focuses in on the portrait. Jason visibly swells with pride.]

Prof: This piece here is interesting. When did you do it?

Jason: Last night. I was sort of inspired…

Prof: Ah…

Jason [who never learns]: So what do you think of it?

Prof: Hm. Well, let me just say something here. You know, art is a tricky subject. Sometimes in life, things you do say something about yourself. Other times it doesn’t matter. Like if a person is bad at math, people just say ‘Oh well, you’re just bad at math.’ It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. But you know, if you’re bad at art, it’s like saying you don’t have a soul.

[This is the sum total of the professor’s critique. He walks off. Jason stands there shell-shocked. Bob has been listening, comes over.]

Bob: Dude. Did he just say that you don’t have a soul?

Jason: ...Yeah, I think he did.

Bob: Damn man. I’d be a little worried right about now.

And that pretty much sums up the entire class experience. I ended up pulling a B+, after haggling with him up from a C. Since I never missed a single day of class and I never once tried to kill him with a piece of charcoal all semester long, I think I earned every bit of it too.

Adulthood and Injuries

Yesterday was the grand move-in / move-out day. Finally I would be out of the dorm and into my real apartment to begin what would no doubt be real and exciting life. To start said exciting, adult life, my parents came into town bearing piles of furniture and kitchen ware to get me set up. Because, let’s face it, if it was just me I would eat Ramen noodles every meal of the day and build furniture out of cardboard boxes. And I would then totally build a fort out of the cardboard boxes with a sign in the front that said “NO GIRLS ALLOWED.” But we’re getting off track here.

So, over the course of 6 hours, we moved all my crap out of the dorm and down the highway all three grueling miles to my new place. We even got The Huge-Ass TV of Death and Awesome-ness all the way over there without any injuries to ourselves or the TV. I consider that one of the few physical miracles of this age, considering the size of the TV, the size of myself, the distances traveled, and my tendency to fall down all the time.

Rather than actually set anything up, we just sort of piled everything in the middle of the room and I’d get around to setting up later on. First, we must hit the Wal-Mart to buy all those things that I take for granted that people would have in their apartment that I most certainly do not have. Like trashcans. And a broom. And lights (but we’ll get to that).

Wal-Mart continues to and will always be my true arch nemesis. Fighting through the hoards of small, screaming children and climbing over the backs of fallen, less hardy shoppers, I found an excellent box of cut rate dishes that serve 8, a set of 6 steak knives in a cool wooden block, a skillet, and a standing lamp, all for about 30 bucks. Which is why even though we may hate each other with a fiery passion, I will always come back to Wal-Mart.

Oh yeah, so I definitely needed that lamp. Why, you ask? Because did I mention that while my apartment is hella awesome, it lacks lights? Yeah, there are no lights in the living room, or either of the bedrooms. Yet, both bedrooms come with strange-looking “Emergency Buttons” that come attached to the wall at waist height and hang from short cords. Obviously someone got a little confused on priorities somewhere during the construction process.

Anyways. Now it is time for the most fun part of the day, bed shopping. For an awesome new bed is to be my graduation present, so’s I don’t have to sleep on the futon anymore, much like a hobo. However, we hit something of a problem as we realize that beds are freakin’ expensive in Dallas. To the tune of 35% mark-up from back home. So no bed for Jason, until Wednesday.

My parents head on back home, now that I’m nicely civilized. I take a breath, look around my new place and the large pile of crap I now have. Sooo exciting.

*********************

Majority of the crap is now finally in its proper place.

Alright, time to cook dinner for myself. Huzzah for Ramen noodles. And the automatic sandwich maker. Sweet.

However, issues always arise. Because as I am carrying my steaming bowl of noodles to the table, I step on the border between the tile and the carpet and get a foot full of tiny carpet tacks. “Yow,” I say. But I recognize that I have a bowl of extremely hot liquid in my hand, so I do not freak out and flail like I would normally when impaling myself on a bunch of spikes. Congratulate myself on newfound cool, calm demeanor.

Suddenly, telephone rings. Turn to answer it, pour boiling liquid from the noodles all over my hand. Go blind temporarily from the pain. Noodles go everywhere. Recover sight, place bowl into sink. High pitched shriek. Hand under the water. Ahhh, much relief.

On the plus side, I completely forget about pain in foot.

So for the rest of the night, I must keep my hand in water, or have a cup nearby to reapply when pain comes back. “S’alright,” I say. “All part of being an adult.” I clean up the noodles (none of which touched anything but tile, thank God) and recover on the couch.

Hm, still need to put the futon and the shelves together. Will be difficult with injured hand, but must persevere. Adults must go through this sort of thing all the time. Begin work on the futon. Must apply large seating area piece A to outer frame piece B. No problem. Screw #1 in place. Move to other side. Attempt to place screw #2. Hand still wet from glass full of ice, piece A slips out of my burned hand and falls onto previously unharmed hand, sandwiching it between two large, unwieldy pieces of metal. “Yow,” I say again.

Decide that perhaps adults have a bit more common sense and grace than I. Will attempt to continue this process tomorrow, when hands and one foot are throbbing less. Huzzah for adulthood.

Democracy

(Subtitle: Proof That It Doesn’t Work)

[The scene: Saturday night in the dorms. Frank, Jason and Sean have just returned to the room. Mark and Eric are at their respective computers. It is decided that everyone will watch a movie to waste the rest of the night. Everything is going great, or so it would seem.]

Jason: So what’re we gonna watch?

Frank: I don’t know, what do we got?

[Sigh. Jason reads off the name of every movie in the room.]

Frank: . . .

Jason: So? What are we gonna watch?

Sean: I don’t care, someone pick something.

Jason: How about The Italian Job? I still haven’t seen that.

Sean: Me either.

Jason: Sweet.

[Goes to put it in.]

Mark: No, I want to watch Transformers – The Movie!

Jason: Shut up, we’re not watching it.

Mark: Why?!

Jason: Because it sucks.

Mark: It has Orson Wells. It can’t suck.

Jason: Read closer. Orson Wells as Unicron. Suck.

Mark: Whatever.

Eric: Turtles in Space!!!

Jason: Excuse me?

Eric: I vote for Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in Space.

Sean: Is that even real?

Mark [rummages through his desk]: Yeah it is.

Jason: Sigh. Fine. Since we all can’t decide on a choice, we’ll have a vote. In traditional Democratic and Survivor style, the movie that gets the most votes will win so get your alliances ready now. You have 2 minutes until poll time.

[Various levels of deal making occur. A seemingly strong alliance is formed between Jason and Frank for The Italian Job. Sean wishes to please everyone and is pained to commit anywhere. Eric continues his strange obsession with Turtles in Space. Mark keeps pushing Transformers: “Leonard Nimoy! When has he ever made a bad movie?”]

Jason: Two minutes up! Commence with the voting.

[He rips up an index card into strips and hands out the ballots. After a few seconds, he collects the votes in The Red Cup of Judgment.]

Jason: I will now read the votes aloud. Whichever movie gets the most votes is automatically the winner, no matter what.

Eric: You have to read them out loud exactly as they’re written.

Jason: Sigh. Whatever. Fine. Vote #1: "Turtles in Space, George Bush sucks." Okaaaay. Vote #2: "The Italian Job." Vote #3: "Transformers." Quite the dead heat, we’ve got here. Vote #4: ...goddamn it.

Sean: What?

Frank: [giggles like a teenage girl.]

Jason: Vote #4: "Jason is a fugly hoe." Sigh. Okay, so that’s one vote for Turtles, one for Italian Job, one for Transformers, and one for Jason is a Fugly Hoe. Siiiiigh. Guess it all comes down to this last vote.

[Pause to build anticipation.]

Jason: The Fifth and Final Vote is: "Italian Transformers?!"

Sean: Can’t we all just get along?

Jason: Damn it! That’s it! Democracy sucks. We’re a dictatorship now. It’s my TV, my room, we’re watching The Italian Job. I will destroy all opposition. Any questions? Good. Lets get to getting.

[Thus, the decision was made. And the movie wasn’t too bad, although almost painfully predicable and contained no shirtless Mark Walberg, which was a shame, seeing as I thought he was contractually obligated to do at least one scene without his shirt per movie.]

Anyway, what can we take from this object lesson? Democracy is futile, because your average voter either: is nostalgic for their past and votes for safe choices, is afraid of offending anyone and becomes indecisive, has the mental maturity of a 16 year old girl, or becomes jaded and cynical during the whole process and plots to overthrow the resulting government.

Damn, I should totally teach political science.

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.