My life is pretty plain

It's Saturday morning, at 4:33pm. I've only been up for an hour. You'd think that I had a good Friday. It wasn't too bad, actually, but it wasn't that good. I probably shouldn't complain too much, as it could have been a lot worse, but when you stay up until 7am and subsequently sacrifice much of your Saturday to dreaming, there are certain expectations. In any case, I lounge around, listening to Blind Melon while wearing my limey green hoodie and a pair of shorts, which should eventually be burned.

I worked last night. My boss was trashed, as usual, so I went ahead and bartended. My boss, a genuine ex-crack whore, has a thing against deaf bartenders. Apparently we're worthless, stupid, and incompetent. Ironically, those are traits I ascribe to her. I suppose she's doing a bit of psychological projection, and I seethe at having to train the new bartenders while no one has faith in my abilities. But, yeah, I bartended yesterday, and I fucking kicked ass if I do say so myself. I love showing up the other bartenders, both in skill, speed, and looks.

Work garnered me ten bucks (most of the phat cash went to the real bartender, who I think gypped me of my due. I hate it when the bartenders think they can cop out a few dollars because they feel they need it more. Hey. I'm poor too.), which meant I could drink on my own dollar for the first time in a week. M., stopped by, so we went to the Loft for drinks.

The Loft is a martini bar. Hell, even Hicktown has to have a bit of sophistication. It's the only way the State Farm yuppies can prance around and pretend that they're living the big-city singles life. The drinks, martinis, are expensive, but from what I've sampled, they're quite good. I had a dirty martini, which is basically vodka and olive joice, and an apple martini, which is vodka, and apple vodka. It's kind of a girly vodka, but I enjoy it anyway. Mostly because I can drink it like water.

On a side note, my boss serves Apple pucker in shots. One afternoon, I suggested we sell apple martinis. She couldn’t fathom putting pucker in vodka and calling a martini (Whuddya know?). So, of course, that idea didn't fly.

The Loft had a live band, and they were downright funky. I couldn't help but groove in my seat while M. looked over lustily. After a few songs, she couldn't take it anymore and dragged me over to the floor. Now, I love dancing, and I love dancing with girls even more, but M. had no rhythm. If you don't have any rhythm, I don't care if you dance, but don't try to force me into your lack-of-rhythm. I ended up pushing her away and dancing by my lonesome, while at the same time trying to entice her into my fold. See, that way I can dance alone, to the proper rhythm, and the girl still things I'm dancing with her. It's a bit of tact manipulation, I'll admit, but it works.

We did this for an hour. I then tired of the old-folk/yuppie scene and suggested we bolt to 110. So, we did, but first old ladies, who claimed that they wanted to look at my tattoos, felt me up. Of course, "looking" entailed a bit of stroking. I don't mind. It's one hell of a compliment when old skeezers wet themselves over you.

110 was fucked. M. was quite tipsy and ended up becoming ill. We went back to my place, where she proceeded to pass out, leaving me bouncing around the living room. My roommate, M.M. had returned from the A.D.Pi semi-formal with one very rotund, very bored girl. She looked at my gymnastic moves and old ballet forms with a slack-jaw, two very dopey-eyes, and a bit of vermeer and sweet vermouth.

So, Friday.


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


It's hard to believe that next week, this time, I'll be in Phoenix. There's home for me now. It'll be warm. It'll be toasty. It'll be beautiful. It'll smack of reality.

Yeah, I'm going to have to look for a job. Not just any job. A fucking career. I graduate in May, from my worthless school, with my worthless degree and my worthless resume. Welcome to the real world, Jon. Enjoy your stay. Try not to mind the constant ass-raping by this here splintery broom-handle. Eventually you'll be able to afford a bit of K-Y. Things'll go smoother after that.

A fucking job. I can't believe it. Hell, I'll be 22 in a week and a half. That's like, ancient or something. I peek over my shoulder constantly, wondering if there's a walker waiting for me with my name engraved on it. I expect any moment now my balls will drop to the floor and I'll spend the rest of my live in squalor, alone, unlaid, and dragging my nuts from corner to corner. Oh, yes, and crapping my pants on command.

Ah! The holy moment. This moment is holy. Holy holy holy.

After a talk with M.B., who was a professor of mine from a different lifetime, I've come to the conclusion that I'll most likely end up becoming a substitue teacher, while I try to earn enough money to get into grad school. Substitute teachers don't need real teaching degrees. All they need is a B.A. in some subject, and a piece of paper that says they are literate enough to read the lesson plans left by the teacher. Come to think of it, that explains many substitute teachers. Any douche with a degree in fluffing (heheheheh, Beavis, he said fluffing) can get a substitute teacher paper and wander merrily into the school district.

Scary, isn't it? I'm going to be teaching.

Pinky, phase one is complete.
Gee, Brain. What's phase two?
....
Pinky, phase three is profit!

Fuck the Blog

It's been a typical Thursday night. I went out. I drank. I danced. I came home. I played darts. I checked the computer. I'll eventually park my hairy ass in bed, and tomorrow, which only happens after I've gone to sleep, Friday comes.

I was originally planning on attending Dream Man. See, we (SigEp, that is) sent our best Aryan specimen to the stage, so that he could be ogled by hundreds of girls, many possibly in heat. That, readers, is a dangerous mission. I don't think there's anything deadlier than a girl in heat. You never know when she'll attack you. A brother could be standing at a party, innocently sipping his less-than-proficient beer, when a gaping, wet pussy attacks him and drags him away to lord-knows-where. Occasionally, a scream or a gasp betrays his whereabouts, but nothing is heard of him until the next morning, when he stumbles out into the unforgiving light, squinting and rubbing his raw crotch. There's nothing left of his night but tortured dreams and the occasional panty or bra.

Dangerous, indeed. But, our Aryan's pretty buff, so I wasn't too worried about him. I did want to see him kick ass, so I headed down to the Bone Center where this hedonistic display of hard flesh was to take place. I probably should've stopped at the SigEp house, like I was told, to meet up with other brothers, but I thought I was running late so I just went straight to the Bone.

Bad decision. I sat in the lobby, looking like a total fucktard, until I got it into my head that it probably cost money to get into Dream Man. I don't have any money, so I took my fucktard ass back home.

Luckily, M. paged me and asked me if I wanted to go bar-hopping. I'm always game for a night of whoring my sorry ass out.

We first went to Elroys. Remember, I had no money, so therefore, I had no drinks. No drinks makes for a very boring bar experience. I decided it would be best to retire to the second floor, where I happened to bump into W. W is one of my cooler brothers. He's Marine, who's eventually going to become an Army grunt. Hoo-rah and all that. W. and I bullshitted (we were both sober) for a bit, then headed over to the balcony edge to look at the teeming masses. I fucking love looking at the people whirling their mad lives and huddling against each other in order to hide from the massive mounds of sexual energy pulsating like a bad techno beat. That, folks, is the ultimate microcosm of Colligate life. In this corner, you have the gyrating girls going dyke in hopes of attracting the rich snob, who is currently talking to the blonde, model-wannabe, who is being ogled by the fat, old man sitting next to the punk kids trying to figure out what the abercrombie-whore next to them sees in the vapid yuppie trying desperately to hit on the bartender's popping breasts. And, they all merge together and flow like a Monet. Here's some colours. Here's some skin. Here's some dancing. Here's some living. Here's some being.

And, there's me standing, wondering who's fucking, who will be fucking, and who will be walking the streets of Bloomington looking for an angry fuck/fix.

Baby, welcome to the bar. Enjoy your stay and don't trip over the passed-out wants.

W., M., and I tired of the meat-market scene and decided to hit 110. 110 is our Hicktown dance club. I dance lightly over the term "dance club." It's more of fuck-with-your-clothes-on club than a dance club, but I digress. As usual, I did my dance thang, got some numbers, and hit the cold road home.

To Thursday.

Ponderings from a Tattooed Joo

D. hit me up a few minutes ago. I like D. He's bright and he'll end up being rich some day. I'm glad he's my big brither. I aim to call him in about twenty years, poor and destitue, looking for enough money to cover my next crack fix. I mean, I'm a philosophy major. I'm not talented enough to do anything but stand on street corners and shit my pants on command. Please sir, won't you please give me some more knowledge?

The first time I had a real conversation with D., one that did not involve me, while drunk, begging him to shoot me with an air gun so that I could prove my manliness (or lack thereof), we talked about penny stocks. I've always been a bit fascinated with penny stocks. I mean, you can own parts of a company for only a few cents. Now, usually you don't get much return on these stocks, other than the experience of playing with the market (which can come in handy when you move up to dollar stocks, tens of dollar stocks, and bonds), but occasionally a company hits it big and moves from penny stocks to tens-of-dollar stocks and brings you along for the ride. Amazon.com (or was it e-bay?), I believe, was first a penny-stock.

D. invests in penny stocks. Now, tell me, isn't that a guy who's got his eyes on his wallet? And, bro, you wouldn't let a little brother down by not giving him his crack money? I know I can count on you in twenty years. I'll apologize in advance for the smell. Crapping your pants on command is really a good way to garner some sympathy pennies.

Anyway, D. and I were talking about tattoos. We're both Jews, which means we're somewhat closer to perfection than most people. D. wants a tattoo, but his family, as well as most Jews, frown on beautiful body art because a few million of us were forcefully tattooed half a century ago. Now, I understand that the bitterness and the anguish of the Holocaust lingers in the minds of our people, but I do not understand the logic that transfers some of that hatred to tattoos.

Let's dissect the logic offered by our elders.

Premise 1. Our people were forcefully tattoed by the Nazis.
Premise 2. Many of these people were killed
Premise 3. Anything the Nazis did to us is bad.

Conclusion. Tattoos are bad and getting them is disrespectful to those who were forcefully tattooed.

I see a few errors with how this is thought out. The Nazis did more than tattoo us. They also forced us to build things. We built cars, munitions, cities, garments, and whatever the Germans needed. If tattoos are bad because the Nazis forced us to have them, then why don't we have qualms about driving Volkswagons, BMWs, or listening to nifty German bands such as Kraftwerk or Rammestein?

I can imagine my grandfather screaming at me:

"Jon! The blood of your people made that beautiful BMW Z4! Why can't you drive a Lincoln Towncar like any sensible Jew?"
"Grand-dad. It's a Z4"
"I don't care. Your auntie drives a Volkswagon Beetle. You should be more like her."
"But, Grand-dad, Hitler practically invented the Volkswagon."
"Oy vey, you schlemiel. Don't argue with me. Mensch."

Yeah. Don't argue with old Jews. They're as illogical and impractical as most women.
But, in any case, I have five tattoos. What're they going to do, other than bitch at me?


-------

Dream Man is tonight. For those of you not in the know, Dream Man is basically a glorified Manslut show. Either the fraternities submit their best looking speciman, or the sororities pick the best speciman from each frat, and parade him, half-naked, around a stage while girls and guys hoot.

SigEp, as usual, has the best looking guys, and the best looking Dream Man. I'm looking to get laid by affiliation?


"Yeah, you know that blond, blue-eyed aryan dude from SigEp? He was in my pledge class."
"Ohmigod he is so fucking cuuuuuuute!"
"Yeah. Um. Can I have a blow-job now? You can pretend you're giving it to him."

Jump, Jive, and Pail

I got another tattoo today. It's my fifth. I know. I'm addicted. I probably could have spent the tattoo money on other, more important things, such as food, bills, and alcohol. Hell, I should've just spent the money on alcohol. I would've had enough to stock me with quality shit. I'm tired of MD 20/20 and Night Train. Sure, they're an easy buzz, but my throat has worn away and I insert the bottles directly into my gullet.

I do like tattoos. They're the only permanent investment anyone can make. Nothing else will last you until you die. All things that are, for some reason, have a tendency to disappear. If I get married, there's a fifty percent chance I'll get a divorce. That doesn't exactly convince me that marriage is such a wise investment. Toys get lost. Bonds can appreciate, depreciate, or fuck an unsuspecting investor in the ass. Friends can fade away, much like Neil Young. Tattoos, baby, will last you until the day you die. If you want your tattoo to go away, you've got to cut it off your skin. Now, isn't that fucking loyalty?

I received my fifth one today. It's the first tattoo outside my shirt-line, and I'm quite proud of it. I feel like gushing about how it's, like, totally, the coolest bracelet in the world, and it's like, so fucking deep and stuff.

Well, it is really deep. I would post a picture, but the camera I have now is attached to my very lovely Sidekick-2, and has the comparative visual resolution of a blind man squatting over an electron microscope. In other words, it's blurry as fuck and no one's seeing anything worth shit. I shall then, in order to appease whomever you folks are, flex my descriptive powers and show you, through words, how magnificent my eternal bracelet is.

It's on my right arm. I wanted it on my left arm, but the tattoo artist made it match the tattoo on my right bicep. My art, much like my body, has got to flow, ya dig? So, we stuck it on my right arm. There are two parallel lines. These lines are the main body of the tattoo. Each line consists of several interwoven lines that closely resemble the rose vines on my bicep. In between the parallel lines is that quote from Ecclesiasticus. It reads, Son, observe the time, and fly from evil. . The inscription is made using a font called Abaddon. At the crux of the parallel lines, which is on the pasty-ass side of my wrist, is a watch fob face. It's the face of a pocket watch my grandfather gave me. The face uses roman numbers and increments of one in between. The watch has no hands, because I do not like carrying time around with me. I feel, in some ways, that I become a slave to time, when I'd much rather be ignorant of its passing. Also, because I'm really fucking deep and shit, the timelessness represents the temporalness of everything.

Really, I could go on for pages about how deep my tattoo is, and not cover everything. See, I like tattoos that have meaning. None of this, "I'd like tattoo A, please. And, um, a butterfly on my right ass cheek because, um, they're so pretty and stuff." Give me something that I'm pretty sure is unique, and I'm happy.

---------


So, R. showed me Wikipedia. Actually, that's not completely true. I've seen Wikipedia, and have actually used it a few times. I didn't think much of it. Wikipedia was like the girl at a party that gets used, tossed aside, and then happily burbles her way to the next boy/fuckthing/user. Once in awhile, when the beer-haze lifts and the girl you're currently dancing with rears her blemished face, you turn in disgust and see the Wikipedia-girl, and hey, she isn't so bad looking.

Yeah, R. made me look closely at Wikipedia. I'm ashamed that I didn't look it over closely before. The thing is a fucking gold mine of information. I was reading an article, and it made reference to a webcomic called Mac Hall, which I enjoy every so often. Wikipedia was kind enough to link to a page that contained a fucking encyclopedia entry about Mac Hall. The entry contained information about the comic, it's start date, the artists, the style used, and other relevant information. A fucking webcomic had a page in this encyclopedia. Shit. I can't even begin to explain the amount of information Wikipedia has in its archives. We're talking about a cultural weapon. Wikipedia has the power to revolutionize the exchange of information as we know it. And, you know what, it'll get bigger, because it relies on entries submitted by people.

I told R. that my plans to take over the world had to be ceased. Wikipedia would whip me like the republicans beating on a democrat in the House.

There are some problems with Wikipedia, though. I'm not sure if there's a fact checking organization. I'm sure there are some people, who take it upon themselves to check all the information going through Wikipedia, but there's so much information, and there's no money involved. How long before a small group of individuals dedicated to sharing information are overthrown and overwhelmed by a bunch of bored twelve-year-olds whose greatest thrills in life come from accidentally stumbling over their Dad's porno-stash?

I worry for it.

Stupid is as Jon does

During one of my day dreaming segues, I stumbled upon old memories of some of my favorite childhood movies. This particular segue was inspired by the song that was playing on my well concealed Lyra (Mp3), John Lennon's Imagine .

I first heard Imagine when I was watching Mr. Holland's Opus . I know I probably should have heard it earlier, or at least have known about it, but a deaf kid really doesn't get much exposure to popular music. Imagine played during one of the many time transitions, in Mr. Holland's Opus , that zipped us from decade to decade. I believe the song eased us from the late sixties to the early seventies.

The use of Imagine was incredibly poignant. Lennon's achingly wanting voice, backed by a sparse guitar rhythm (Eva Cassidy does a kick-ass cover of this song, by the way) flits through scenes of Vietnam, anti-war protests, and social conflicts. It's almost as if Lennon, by himself, is the thread that ties each frame to each moment. Each moment crystalizes as a single note plucked from a Lennon finger. Is there something as timeless as chord progression?

I replayed that particular scene in my head a few times (Shouldn't have I been paying attention to the teacher?) and began to wonder how people who lived through those times thought of their world. Then, I remembered what an old friend told me during a high school class (When I should've been paying attention, again). He said that when he was a college student in the 60s and 70s, the anti-war movements, the hippie movements, and the general chaos that he lived through seemed far-away. When he looks back at that time, he wonders if he actually lived through all that, or if the media and the general consciousness seized upon a small movement and magnified it to become the larger social consciousness. What then, of a kid from the midwest? Did he experience the throes of his decade with the full force impacted by Lennon's prayer?

My mind leapfrogs around like a drunken monkey swinging through the trees. I couldn't meander on that subject for long. I had to apply it to my own life. I wonder what people will say of the turmoil I'm living through now. Will I, in twenty years, watch movies with time segues through my childhood, and wonder if I had any play in the magnification of my social consiousness? I'm not an emo-kiddie. I'm not a pop-punk sk8tr. I'm not an abercrombie-fitch whore. I'm not a war protestor. I'm not a soldier. I won't dance in the desert. I won't do much of anything, except dance on the weekends, get drunk when I can, and try to find a little bit of lovin' where it's availible.

What then of me? When we read about Vietnam, 1968, the birth of the Big-Mac, and everything substantial that came out of that period of time, we think about all the lives that must've been wretched from their common thread. It's romantic, in a way. And, you know, romance is bunk. I want to believe in the myths of the 60s, but reality tells me that most people living were either blissfully going about their gnatty lives, or living in perpentual banality, much like myself.

I don't believe I'm a creature of time, or even a peon of history. I know my past and I've studied the collective pasts of many people. While it may be lovely to follow the threads left by gorgeous writers of lives, I am at times lonely for each individual fiber.

Perhaps I exaggerate the importance of these times. I do know that 9/11 will be considered a pivotal point in our nation's history, but I'm not quite so sure that all the chaos and all the posturing that followed will be the equivalent of the massive movements that shook my parent's childhood.

It's said that every generation has it's trials. My grandparents had World War II. My parents had Vietnam. We have Iraq?

It's much to think about, and for now, I have class.

Perfect Blue Buildings

M. came over late tonight. I had just finished playing volleyball, and getting beat in the process, when he sauntered in my room. Word was open. Music was playing. Thoughts were being processed. Passive voice was reigning supreme. And, I was fucking bored. So, armed with filter-less Lucky Strikes, we went to Illinios Brewing Company (IBC).

IBC is the closest thing my little (100,000 people) hicktown has to a brew-pub. It doesn't offer home-made rootbeer, and the food is less than palatable, but it does offer a small selection of micro-brewery brews. The last time I was there, I had a Stumblin' Stout, which wasn't too bad. I also ordered a Big Beaver Brown Ale, which was quite fantastic. A week later, I was still raving about it.

A week later was today, so of course, I needed me some Big Brown. When we arrived at IBC, I decided to be darring and order Wild Willy's Wheat Ale. The bartender offered me a lemon. I declined. I wish I didn't. The ale, while tolerable, was quite sour. There wasn't much sweet to it. In fact, it tasted like week-old Wonder bread. When your beer tastes like it has been pumped full of preservatives and left to moulder on some store shelf, you know you have problems.

We finished that and played pool. I dominated the table, but sank the cue ball while calling the 8-ball. Bad Jon. No soup for you.

I couldn't leave without quaffing some Brown Ale. It was sour too. I think the entire batch of everything was bad. Perhaps some disgruntled employee, fed up with hops and wort and everything beer-y, pissed in every mixture. Come to think of it, that's probably why I didn't get my buzz. The beer was extremely watered down.

------

H. came over last night. We had us some fun. I do believe I enjoy that nice, firm ass of hers. I shall have to sample it more often.

On Smells (A revision of Mill)

I bought some incense the other day. There's nothing special about that. People buy incense all the time. I dont expect a band to follow me around, singing something about Jon buying incense, although that would be pretty cool. I can imagine the lyrics:

Jon. Jon. Jon's buying incense.
He's marching up
to the counter.
He's laying his hard
earned money
on the line
because
he wants to smell good.
And someday, he knows he'll become
supervisor .

Snazzy, isn't it? I should probably become a song-writer.

The store at which I bought the incense had three varities. I decided on Gonesh sticks, because they were cheap and I'd had a pleasant experience with one before. Since I don't really like making decisions, I picked the Random Package, because then someone else would be choosing my scent-sticks.

I brought my scent sticks home and opened them up. The first stick-bunch smelled like baby powder. That's not too bad. An ex of mine used to wear baby powder deodorant. Now, when I feel like it, I can make my room smell like armpit.

The second bunch smelled like liquid government soap. Now, that made me think. Who likes the smell of government soap? Was someone at the Gonesh Sticks company so hard-up for new scents that they decided on Government Soap? I try to imagine the thought process behind Government Soap Scent.

BOSS: We need a new scent. Profits on the new Hospital Disinfectant Scent aren't as good as forcasted. I think the nurse market wasn't as big as we thought.
LACKEY: Hm. How about Preparation H scent?
BOSS: Nah, the geriatics aren't really big on incense. They're more concerned with bingo.
LACKEY: Bingo scents?
BOSS: Hm. That's not a bad idea. We'll stash that away for another time. But, I want to hit the younger market. You know, the hippies with big noses and disposable income.
LACKEY: What's something that younger kids are around all the time?
BOSS: Vaseline and Kleenex scents!
LACKEY: Yeah!
BOSS: No. That's not right. The government wouldn't go for that.
LACKEY: Government...government...government soap!


The scary thing is I think I'm not too far off the mark.

The third bundle smelled like Granny perfume. I guess I bought the Women's Bathroom pack rather than the random pack.


----------


My body clock is a mess. The other day, I went to bed at 7am. Yeah, I know. I like to party. I woke up at 3pm. The sun set two hours later. The next day, I went to bed at 8am. I woke up, today, at 3:30pm. The sun set an hour and a half later. It's 7pm and I feel like it's lunch time. There's something not right with that.

Eventually, I'm probably going to develop pasty skin, and a craving for virgin necks. I know. I'm going to metamorph into a computer nerd.

I vant your memory stivks...

We all rise as one

I've been listening to a lot of Eva Cassidly lately. I blame my friend J (Actually, J is my ex-girlfriend, but that's another, long, story). She introduced me to Eva a few weeks ago. I didn't think much of her. I never think much of the music J brings until I get around to them on my own time. Well, my own time came and now I can't stop goggling over the sheer wonder that is Eva. Eva's voice is perfection refined. It's perfection taken, tempered in perfection juices, cooled in perfection water, then blessed with holy perfection water taken from the Shekinah, herself. I cannot even begin to explain how melodous, magical, and mystifying Eva's voice sounds. Seriously, I could ply superlatives all day and not run out.

If you're looking to get started on Eva, I suggest the following songs:

What a Wonderful World
Over the Rainbow
Field of Gold (Yes, I know, it's a Sting cover. After you listen to it, though, you'll forget Sting existed).

Eva died in 1996 of Melanoma. All the good singers are dead.

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

My nose runs in anticipation of Phoenix. The countdown hit eleven days. I'm not at the point where I'm counting minutes and seconds. I've too much I need to get finished before I obsessively count time. Eventually, you'll find me huddled in a fetal position somewhere in my room, muttering about seconds and the rhythms of a cessium atom gone awry. It brings to mind Ecclesiasticus 4:23 (Son, observe the time and fly from evil).

I most certainly will be flying from evil. I'm not sure I quite like central Illinois. To be fair, it does have it's fair points, but the conservative nature of it and the abject banality wears on me. I'll have to write more on this another time, when work isn't staring at me in the face. Again, time kicks me in the behind and forces me forward.

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

I've been thinking of getting that line from Ecclesiaticus tattooed on my wrist. A few things have been stopping me. Actually, only one thing has been stopping me. I hesitate to break my shirt rule. The shirt rule states that all tattoos on the torso shall be covered by a white t-shirt (except for the one on my right arm which oh-so-sexily peeks out from behind the hem-line of my sleeve).

You know what? Fuck the shirt rule. I want that line on my left wrist. And, it can be covered by a watch if necessary.

Funny. I can't stand wearing watches, but I'm willing to wear one to cover a tattoo.