Chunks of Jon (Bang, Bang, I shot me down.)
A few years ago, I wrote a story for a creative writing class. I know, I'm surprised too. Who knew that creative writing classes required stories? Actually, it wasn't really a story, but a collection of moving scenes. Each scene had a bit of a dream-like quality. The writing is really early-Jon, but I was fond of it at the time and occasionally I think back on it. Isn't that odd? My writing becomes my memories, even if it was a complete event of fiction. I have memories of being chunks of Jon, even though I've never actually been chunks of Jon. The chunks came because during one of my segues, I fell off a motorcycle and plastered across the pavement. A friend liked that line so much that she used it as a title in one of her web pages. Imagine that. There apparently is a distinct quality in various chunks of Jon strewn over the length of a street.
My memories of being chunks of Jon may be there, but at no point have I ever had the inclination to actually be chunks of Jon. I'm quite fond of my whole and I would be quite upset if any part decided to part ways. I mean, the entire Jon is composed of every part that makes my whole. Were parts to part, I would be very much less of a man, and quite possibly a shadow of my former self. Hence, it is to my benefit to keep as many parts of myself attached until I finally decide to give up the ghost. Sometimes, though, you can't help but become un-attached to various body parts. Please, let me elaborate and try not to laugh too hard.
Yesterday was my fraternity Big Brother/Big Sister (BBBS) night. The basic format for BBBS night involves a lot of liquor, an entire section of a UoI bar reserved for your specific Frat/Sorority, some dances, and maybe a sloppy, drunken kiss at the end of the night. Usually, the Big Brother buys gifts for his Little Sister. We were told to get a shirt, and a bottle of Boone's Farm. Boone's Farm is a two-dollar bottle of liquid that assumes it's wine, and tries to sell you on the presumption. It's actually flavored, fermented water. I refuse to call it wine. It might even be wine spittle, but it's certainly not wine. In any case, I refused to get my little sister anything that revolting.
My uncle is a wine cousinnar. He has, of late, been teaching me about the different kinds of wines and each kind's proper pairing. I've always wanted to know how to do that. I think there's an element of smoothness in knowing wines. I mean, having an extensive knowledge of the finer arts of eating is a very nice way to impress a girl. Wine-knowledge harkens back to sophistication, or at least it does in my convoluted mind. I decided to apply my new wine knowledge in hopes of impressing my Little Sister. While every other girl was getting beer, or Boone's Farm, she was going to be getting a nice bottle of Moscato. Moscato is a white, dessert wine. It's quite sweet, and desert wines are a pretty decent way of inviting someone into the world of wines.
The evening started off pretty dull. We were told to be there at 7, however, the girls did not arrive until about 8:30. I sat around, mostly, drinking Mickey's. Mickey's is a malt liquor, or about half-a-step above Old English 800. I've been meaning to drink Mickey's ever since I saw the characters drinking it in SLC Punk. It's not a bad beer, but the taste doesn't justify $2.50 for a 40.
While drinking, I was given a sex coupon and told that my little sister would have the other half. Sound easy enough, right? It should have been, but I had sisters switched out on me. I was originally supposed to have M., but was told very clearly that my little sister was J, because someone else wanted M.. Well, my coupon matched up with M., so I had to excuse myself and run around looking for A., so that the whole mess could be cleared up. A., told me that M. was my sister, so I ran down, found M., and apologized for the entire mess. I then dragged her to where I stashed her gifts. She seemed to like the shirt, and she really liked the wine. Yeah, I rock. I know. The wine knowledge did pay off.
In spite of my scintillating brilliance, I had forgotten to bring a wine cork. So, I dragged her upstairs and started asking for a corkscrew and a knife. No one had either, but I some how managed to get the foil off without a knife. The cork, however, didn't feel like budging, even though I asked it nicely to move, please, because my little sister was thirsty.
I was suddenly beset with the idea of heading to A.'s room, because he is among the most sophisticated of my fraternity, if such a thing is possible. I reasoned that if anyone would have a corkscrew, he would. He didn't have a corkscrew, but he offered me a pair of scissors. He said that scissors, placed in the cork and spread, would catch it and yank it out. That didn't work quite as well as we'd like. Fortunately, my quick thinking mind decided to use the sharp part of the scissors to jab the cork and pry it out. That, at least, was the plan. What really happened was the scissors forced the cork into the wine bottle. I laughed and showed everyone what happened. They all seemed really concerned though, and one of the girls looked horrified. I wasn't sure what was goning on, but my hand felt wet. The horrified girl grabbed my hand and rushed me into the bathroom. I really don't remember what happened next. Things got blurry.
I remember a tall girl, decked out in a blue-green satin-ish halter-top holding my hand and asking if I felt nauseous or if I felt like I was going to pass out. I remember that she was really good looking. I also remember fraternity brothers swarming about me, asking me if I was okay, or assuring me that I was well underhand. I remember quite a bit of blood, feeling like I was going to throw up, and things becoming quite black. Actually, I felt like I had downed about 16 shots of Bacardi 151.
I was walked, or rather carried, to a waiting car. I think I asked someone to apologize to my little sister, but I'm not quite sure. Shock's a bitch, even if it comes about for something as minor as removing an entire fingerprint. Once I sat down in the car, I became coherent. The simple act of sitting was all I needed to get out of shock. Looking back, I probably should've just sat down at some point instead of trying to be all manly and fighting through the urge to pass-out.
The car ride wasn't exciting. I made fun of myself, mostly because I felt bad about imposing on a lot of people's time. I hate being useless, and I hate having people go out of their way for me. It makes me feel like an obstacle, or a hindrance. Luckily, I was able to convince K. to leave me at the emergency room. I didn't want to ruin his night, too.
I like small town emergency rooms. I don't have to wait so long for help. Once, while living in D.C., I had a severe concussion (I couldn't remember my name), and was forced to wait for about six hours before they gave me medical help. By then, I was coherent and help was not needed. My mother was livid. I could've had a subdural hemorrhage. Luckily, the wait for slicing off a fingerprint was only a half hour. They had to clear some rooms (there was a car accident earlier that night) first, but I was lying in bed, waiting for the doc faster than I thought I would be. I guess it helps a bit if you're bleeding all over the place.
My nurse was quite nice. she had a blonde perm, pink lipstick, and too much lip-liner. We discussed my philosophy major. She seemed relatively interested in it, and the fact that I was deaf compounded her confusion. At one point, she told me she wished her husband was good at reading lips. I corrected her by pointing out that if I so desired, I could ignore people just by turning away. She acknowledged the inherent drawbacks of having a deaf husband. After a few minutes of this chitchat, she rose to leave. Before she got to the curtains, which separated me from the rest of the non-wounded world, she turned, hesitated, and finally asked if I believed in G-d. I mentioned that I did, and asked the relevancy. She motioned that few philosophy majors believed in G-d. I assured her that my old major was theology, and the big G was still very active in my life. I think that pleased her. Although, I wonder what would have happened had I not believed in G-d. I bet they would've given me less potent drugs.
Ah, the drugs were so nice. The doctor-lady came in, jabbed me full of them, and slunk off. After a half-hour, there was no feeling in my finger. I asked the doctor-lady if I could buy this stuff on the black market. If I had enough of them, I'd never need alcohol again. She laughed at me. I was quite insulted. I really did want those drugs.
I watched The Green Berets while waiting for the Doc to return. I actually liked it, but then again, I didn't have to listen to the dialogue. It wasn't captioned, and the sound was off. Judging from the reviews, I'm glad I didn't have to listen to the dialogue. It was, though, my first John Wayne flick. I know, I'm sheltered and deprived. Doc-Lady came in, glanced at the screen, and shook her head. I don't think she approved of my movie choices. But, what better way is there to spend time while getting a fingerprint stitched back on than watching other people get blown to pieces?
Doc-lady was all business. She didn’t really want to chat, like the nurses. She just wanted to sew my stupid ass up and get me the hell out of there. I decided to talk to her anyway. I asked if anyone else had done anything so stupid, just to impress a girl. She acknowledged that such stupidity was, in fact, common. I was quite surprised that such things occurred in small conservative towns. Doc-lady told me, quite matter of factly, that the conservatives aren't the ones who land in the hospital. They're far to conservative to do stupid things. I guess conservatives like their two-minute hop in the sack every third week or so.
Doc-lady finished up, left, and the blonde nurse came in with instructions and a sock for my finger. I was then unceremoniously shoved out the door.
Yeah, that was my evening. Please try not to laugh too hard. I'm quite wounded.
My memories of being chunks of Jon may be there, but at no point have I ever had the inclination to actually be chunks of Jon. I'm quite fond of my whole and I would be quite upset if any part decided to part ways. I mean, the entire Jon is composed of every part that makes my whole. Were parts to part, I would be very much less of a man, and quite possibly a shadow of my former self. Hence, it is to my benefit to keep as many parts of myself attached until I finally decide to give up the ghost. Sometimes, though, you can't help but become un-attached to various body parts. Please, let me elaborate and try not to laugh too hard.
Yesterday was my fraternity Big Brother/Big Sister (BBBS) night. The basic format for BBBS night involves a lot of liquor, an entire section of a UoI bar reserved for your specific Frat/Sorority, some dances, and maybe a sloppy, drunken kiss at the end of the night. Usually, the Big Brother buys gifts for his Little Sister. We were told to get a shirt, and a bottle of Boone's Farm. Boone's Farm is a two-dollar bottle of liquid that assumes it's wine, and tries to sell you on the presumption. It's actually flavored, fermented water. I refuse to call it wine. It might even be wine spittle, but it's certainly not wine. In any case, I refused to get my little sister anything that revolting.
My uncle is a wine cousinnar. He has, of late, been teaching me about the different kinds of wines and each kind's proper pairing. I've always wanted to know how to do that. I think there's an element of smoothness in knowing wines. I mean, having an extensive knowledge of the finer arts of eating is a very nice way to impress a girl. Wine-knowledge harkens back to sophistication, or at least it does in my convoluted mind. I decided to apply my new wine knowledge in hopes of impressing my Little Sister. While every other girl was getting beer, or Boone's Farm, she was going to be getting a nice bottle of Moscato. Moscato is a white, dessert wine. It's quite sweet, and desert wines are a pretty decent way of inviting someone into the world of wines.
The evening started off pretty dull. We were told to be there at 7, however, the girls did not arrive until about 8:30. I sat around, mostly, drinking Mickey's. Mickey's is a malt liquor, or about half-a-step above Old English 800. I've been meaning to drink Mickey's ever since I saw the characters drinking it in SLC Punk. It's not a bad beer, but the taste doesn't justify $2.50 for a 40.
While drinking, I was given a sex coupon and told that my little sister would have the other half. Sound easy enough, right? It should have been, but I had sisters switched out on me. I was originally supposed to have M., but was told very clearly that my little sister was J, because someone else wanted M.. Well, my coupon matched up with M., so I had to excuse myself and run around looking for A., so that the whole mess could be cleared up. A., told me that M. was my sister, so I ran down, found M., and apologized for the entire mess. I then dragged her to where I stashed her gifts. She seemed to like the shirt, and she really liked the wine. Yeah, I rock. I know. The wine knowledge did pay off.
In spite of my scintillating brilliance, I had forgotten to bring a wine cork. So, I dragged her upstairs and started asking for a corkscrew and a knife. No one had either, but I some how managed to get the foil off without a knife. The cork, however, didn't feel like budging, even though I asked it nicely to move, please, because my little sister was thirsty.
I was suddenly beset with the idea of heading to A.'s room, because he is among the most sophisticated of my fraternity, if such a thing is possible. I reasoned that if anyone would have a corkscrew, he would. He didn't have a corkscrew, but he offered me a pair of scissors. He said that scissors, placed in the cork and spread, would catch it and yank it out. That didn't work quite as well as we'd like. Fortunately, my quick thinking mind decided to use the sharp part of the scissors to jab the cork and pry it out. That, at least, was the plan. What really happened was the scissors forced the cork into the wine bottle. I laughed and showed everyone what happened. They all seemed really concerned though, and one of the girls looked horrified. I wasn't sure what was goning on, but my hand felt wet. The horrified girl grabbed my hand and rushed me into the bathroom. I really don't remember what happened next. Things got blurry.
I remember a tall girl, decked out in a blue-green satin-ish halter-top holding my hand and asking if I felt nauseous or if I felt like I was going to pass out. I remember that she was really good looking. I also remember fraternity brothers swarming about me, asking me if I was okay, or assuring me that I was well underhand. I remember quite a bit of blood, feeling like I was going to throw up, and things becoming quite black. Actually, I felt like I had downed about 16 shots of Bacardi 151.
I was walked, or rather carried, to a waiting car. I think I asked someone to apologize to my little sister, but I'm not quite sure. Shock's a bitch, even if it comes about for something as minor as removing an entire fingerprint. Once I sat down in the car, I became coherent. The simple act of sitting was all I needed to get out of shock. Looking back, I probably should've just sat down at some point instead of trying to be all manly and fighting through the urge to pass-out.
The car ride wasn't exciting. I made fun of myself, mostly because I felt bad about imposing on a lot of people's time. I hate being useless, and I hate having people go out of their way for me. It makes me feel like an obstacle, or a hindrance. Luckily, I was able to convince K. to leave me at the emergency room. I didn't want to ruin his night, too.
I like small town emergency rooms. I don't have to wait so long for help. Once, while living in D.C., I had a severe concussion (I couldn't remember my name), and was forced to wait for about six hours before they gave me medical help. By then, I was coherent and help was not needed. My mother was livid. I could've had a subdural hemorrhage. Luckily, the wait for slicing off a fingerprint was only a half hour. They had to clear some rooms (there was a car accident earlier that night) first, but I was lying in bed, waiting for the doc faster than I thought I would be. I guess it helps a bit if you're bleeding all over the place.
My nurse was quite nice. she had a blonde perm, pink lipstick, and too much lip-liner. We discussed my philosophy major. She seemed relatively interested in it, and the fact that I was deaf compounded her confusion. At one point, she told me she wished her husband was good at reading lips. I corrected her by pointing out that if I so desired, I could ignore people just by turning away. She acknowledged the inherent drawbacks of having a deaf husband. After a few minutes of this chitchat, she rose to leave. Before she got to the curtains, which separated me from the rest of the non-wounded world, she turned, hesitated, and finally asked if I believed in G-d. I mentioned that I did, and asked the relevancy. She motioned that few philosophy majors believed in G-d. I assured her that my old major was theology, and the big G was still very active in my life. I think that pleased her. Although, I wonder what would have happened had I not believed in G-d. I bet they would've given me less potent drugs.
Ah, the drugs were so nice. The doctor-lady came in, jabbed me full of them, and slunk off. After a half-hour, there was no feeling in my finger. I asked the doctor-lady if I could buy this stuff on the black market. If I had enough of them, I'd never need alcohol again. She laughed at me. I was quite insulted. I really did want those drugs.
I watched The Green Berets while waiting for the Doc to return. I actually liked it, but then again, I didn't have to listen to the dialogue. It wasn't captioned, and the sound was off. Judging from the reviews, I'm glad I didn't have to listen to the dialogue. It was, though, my first John Wayne flick. I know, I'm sheltered and deprived. Doc-Lady came in, glanced at the screen, and shook her head. I don't think she approved of my movie choices. But, what better way is there to spend time while getting a fingerprint stitched back on than watching other people get blown to pieces?
Doc-lady was all business. She didn’t really want to chat, like the nurses. She just wanted to sew my stupid ass up and get me the hell out of there. I decided to talk to her anyway. I asked if anyone else had done anything so stupid, just to impress a girl. She acknowledged that such stupidity was, in fact, common. I was quite surprised that such things occurred in small conservative towns. Doc-lady told me, quite matter of factly, that the conservatives aren't the ones who land in the hospital. They're far to conservative to do stupid things. I guess conservatives like their two-minute hop in the sack every third week or so.
Doc-lady finished up, left, and the blonde nurse came in with instructions and a sock for my finger. I was then unceremoniously shoved out the door.
Yeah, that was my evening. Please try not to laugh too hard. I'm quite wounded.
posted by Jon at 1:53 PM
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