Best Fish Tacos Evah

When my body wakes up before my mind, as is wont to happen these days when I go to bed late and rise early, interesting things happen. Any body who has been my roommate or who has slept next to me at some point can testify for this Jon-phenomenon. There are several possible things that can happen in the Jon-awakenings. The most common is The Shriek of Morning. The Shriek of Morning is exactly that; a sound of infinite pain and anguish emanates from my mouth and permeates the room. This usually happens when someone else wakes me up. I will scream like a motherfucker, shake my head, and then attempt to look pleasant.

The Shriek of Morning is not the only way I respond when someone, who is not my alarm, wakes me. If the person is lucky, s/he might only receive The Bitch Out. The Bitch Out is a long stream of cuss-words that flow out of my mouth and cease only when I realize that I'm awake and am currently cussing out my mother, my Rabbi, my Teacher, my Lover, or whoever was stupid enough to wake me up. The lines of curses, I'm told, are funny. I guess people do enjoy being called a motherfucking stupid piece of fucking cock-raped shit. I swear, I don't mean any of it, sometimes.

Another kind of Jon-awakening is the Vampire Rises. The Vampire Rises happens when I am extremely sleep deprived. When my alarm goes off, the top half of my body jerks upright. I remain in this seated position until my mind becomes aware that I am not actually asleep anymore. I am told that this is a pretty scary sight. R. was unfortunate enough to witness the Vampire Rises more times than he'd like to admit. One evening, when I had come home from a particularly hard night (2 hours of Dance, 1 hour in the weight room, and then 2 hours of Gymnastics), R. confronted me in the living room of our suite. I'm not exactly sure how the conversation went, but I'm sure it involved booze, a few random beatnik quotes, some laughing, and an explicit demonstration of the Jon of the Dead movements. I had to agree, you know. It did look pretty fucking creepy. I'm glad I don't have to wake up to my own movements.

The most common of the Jon-awakenings is The Gasp. The Gasp is exactly that; a loud gasp. People who have seen it tell me that it's the kind of gasp they expect to hear from someone who has walked in on his or her murdered family. It's the kind of gasp one expects to hear from someone who has just been stabbed and realizes that s/he is going to die. In other words, it's a really fucking loud and scary gasp. Hell, why shouldn't I gasp? Why would I want to leave my nice, cozy dream world and enter the dreary numbness of Hicktown?

Lately, though, I've been waking up in an interesting way. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm quite the exercise nut. I don't hit the gym, like other exercise or muscle nuts, but I work out every day at home in order to tone my body, rather than make it a massive hunk of meat. If you've ever seen my family, then you know that genetics are not on my side. I have to work hard to maintain the body that I have. Luckily, I'm gifted with a very strong stomach and upper back. The muscles are hidden behind a small curtain of fat, which refuses to go away no matter what I do. If a little bit of tone shows, then you know I've been working particularly hard. Of particular interest to me is my stomach. I am determined to have something that resembles a six-pack, curtain of fat be damned. In order to accomplish this, I've been doing a series of jackknife sit-ups daily. R. has seen me do them and can probably witness about their effectiveness.

One of the amusing side effects of my newfound abdominal strength is its addition to the diverse kinds of Jon-awakenings. I'm not sure if I can classify it as a new Jon-awakening, because it really is an amalgamation of The Gasp, and Vampire Rises. It's existence confounds and amuses me. I sit in bed, moments after experience it, quite bewildered. I'm thinking of calling it The Electrocution, because it looks as if someone had just stuck a live wire in my ass. When my alarm goes off, my torso jerks up at an angle of 45 degrees and my back arches. My arms fall out as if I were attempting to perform a messianistic blessing. I also emit a very audible gasp. Sometimes, while ascending to my angles, I twist as if I had just been given a jolt in order to resuscitate my heart or something. Then, I collapse back on the bed and lay there, breathing hard and wondering what the fuck just happened.

People really oughta film me waking up.

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My mother decided to take me to a swap meet today. Normally, I love swap meets, especially the kind that allows haggling and has various knick-knacks that cannot be found elsewhere. All sorts of interesting characters hang around swap-meets and my mind is always recording them for future reference. A writer never knows when a particular personality is needed. I also have fond memories of the East Market streets in D.C., and of the Flea Markets of Los Angeles. A lot of good things happened there, and a lot of funny things as well.

So, you must imagine that I was very much looking forward to this particular swap meet. I even consented to getting up at 10am, after going to bed at 5:30am. Of course, this early rising resulted in The Shriek of Morning, which sent my mother into peals of laughter. Sometimes, I hate her.

Well, the swap meet was near my parent's house, which meant that it was destined to be a boring piece of crap. Granted, it was cold today (55 degrees), so there weren't a lot of customers. But, I think that the wares scared the customers more than the "freezing" temperatures. Every single fucking table sold the exact same things. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm not a damned cowboy. I'm not going to buy anything that looks remotely like something a goat-roper might like. Also, I'm not buying any oil painting of the Arizona desert, of Indians, or of the same damned bottle of wine that was in every other fucking oil painting of wine. I'm not going to buy a cheap statue of a Chinese dragon. I'm not going to buy concrete kitsch for my walls. While Kokopelli is kind of intriguing, and I might buy one for my apartment at home, I don't need him shoved into my face at every corner. I do not need cheap cookware. I do not need funny T-shirts that say "I'm Sexy in Arizona." I do not need cheap sunglasses. I don't care if I look Jewish, I'm not buying your damned Jew-tinker toys. Although bookstores are compelling, and my wallet itches for them, I cannot purchase anything if you're not open. Having the same piece of art in every store does not increase my chances of buying it. Hell, even the people were identical. The same creakingly old couple staffed every store, I swear.

Suffice to say, I did not like this swap meet. But, I might go back and see if I can't find any Kokopelli to bring home with me.

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I have been hankering for some real good Mexican food, lately. Phoenix is only about four or five hours from the Mexican border, and I swear that I can smell the cooking in the wind. So, I tell my mother that she needs to find me some greasy joined, staffed with cooks who sweat, polish long-assed mustaches, and have oil-barrels filled with Sangria. She retired to the Yellow Pages, and came up with a fast food restaurant near the local Wal-Mart. It was so whitewashed that I felt like I entered Geriatric heaven. The menu was written in bright, curly letterings, and fat women, with too much tan and too much money, filled their copious ass cracks with wooden chairs. The women were flanked by pasty-faced goat-ropers who probably drove too-clean Ford 150s, and Dodge Rams. A cute girl, with big, blue eyes and auburn hair, staffed the counter. A quick glance told me that her eyes were so big because her body was so fucking small. If there was ever a poster child for Anorexia, she was it. I tried to force-feed her with my mind, but for some reason, she refused to flesh out. I want a refund on my recently purchased telepathy powers. In any case, this restaurant was a small step above Taco Bell.

The colourful menu hawked something called World Famous Fish Tacos. Now, I've never had a fish taco, and I've never had a fish taco that was world famous, so I decided that I had to try it. The skinny took my order and motioned over to the buffet table. It wasn't really a buffet table. It was a table that had a variety of salsas, all watery and flavorless.

I took my salsa and waited for my World Famous Fish Taco. It arrived, without flourish, and I tore off the paper surrounding my World Famous Fish Taco. Well, if the taco is world famous, it's famous for being a flop. The damned thing was nothing more than a fish stick in a tortilla shell. They didn't even bother to dress the damned thing up. It was just a fish stick with a little bit of cheese on top.

Yeah. That's my day.

Flying Frayed Flags for Fucking Freedom

People confuse me. I probably shouldn't admit this, because I am people, and people are everywhere, which leaves me in various stages of befuddled during most of the day but, people really do confuse me. I don't understand why they act the way they do. Sometimes people's behavior defies reason, in a sort of wha-tha-fuck way. I used to be able to escape people by watching movies, where everything is scripted and the only thing that confuses me is a poor script or rancid acting, or by playing video games where I get to blow people up. Now, I'm confronted by stupidity at every waking moment. Some could make the argument that I search for stupidity, in order to make myself feel superior, but anyone who knows me knows that feeling superior is something that comes naturally, like breathing. I probably shouldn't read the newspaper or any news website. I'm bound to come across gems which reduce my faith in humanity.

Wha-tha-fuck? A girl brings a confederate dress to prom and is surprised that people get their knickers in knots. I'll refrain from making comments about the girl's appearance. Suffice to say, it screams redneck inbred. Making fun of the dress is quite another matter. I never thought that the confederate flag would find itself in a dress. And, her lawyer has two names, like a southern-hick oughta.

JAQUELINE: Ah, deery mi, dem damnyankees and dem darkies dont wanna me chew wear mah presh-us her-i-tash.
EARL-RAY: Well, missy, dontchew wery yer pritty hed, Earl-Raysa gunna help chew aht.

These nuances aside, the lawsuit is one of those things that defy conventional logic. I'm hoping that the case is brought to at least one competent southern judge, if such a thing exists. Perhaps they will have to go to Never, Never Land (which is the second star to the right and onward till morning) to find such a judge, but one must be found otherwise my diminished faith in humanity will be crushed and kicked to the doorstep. What? You're surprised? I do actually have a little faith in humanity. A very, very little faith in humanity.

Let's first analyze the girl's account of what happened. Let's ignore the fact that she spent four years planning her confederate prom dress. Any girl who spends four years planning something that tacky needs a hobby. I suggest masturbation and drinking. That aside, had she been planning this dress for four years, she would have been aware of several monumental court cases involving the confederate flag. One, in particular stands out. In July of 2000, the South Carolina government removed the confederate flag that had flown at its state capitol on the grounds that it was a symbol of oppression and offensive to African-Americans. Now, if the flag is considered so vile that a staunchly southern state such as South Carolina concedes and lowers the proud symbol of its heritage, then you would think that people have an issue with it. A girl who supposedly graduated near the top of her class would have been bright enough to be aware that the confederate flag probably wasn't the best choice for a prom dress. Apparently, Jacqueline was aware that her dress would be rather inappropriate. To this, she said "Everyone has their own opinion. But that's not mine."

Ladies and Gentlemen, the voice of youth has spoken. It has proclaimed that while everyone else has an opinion, it is not hers and therefore she has full right to disregard them. Let's take her logic and run with it. If I wanted to, I should be able to walk into a Bush Convention wearing a shirt that shows the president being sodomized by the arm industry. If anyone questions me, I should be able to reply that everyone has their opinions, but they aren't mine. I will be sure to repeat that maxim as I am hauled off to jail. I'm sure some of you are thinking that a private convention is quite a bit different from a public occasion. People who pay taxes should be allowed to express their opinion in the instrument of their tax dollars. Well, there may be some rightness in that fact, but I am still not allowed to sound off to the military on their bases, nor am I allowed to wear certain racist or racy clothes on public grounds on the basis that it would be against public decency. I'm sorry Jacqueline, your first reasoning fell quite flat.

It would be one thing if the school co-opted her without warning, but it appears that the school was aware of her plans and several times warned her not to show with the dress. She showed with the dress anyway, hoping that the administrators would change their mind. I'm trying to rationalize her thought pattern. She was told not to wear the dress, wore it anyway, was thrown out, and now she wants to sue because she wasn't let in the dance. People, this is giving me a headache.

Her lawyer, the honorable Earl-Ray Neil is claiming two charges, which is apparently worth $50,000 to his dim client. The first is that the school violated her freedom of speech. The second is that the school violated her right to celebrate her heritage. Both claims are such vehement attacks on reason that I want to start drafting a resolution to prevent inbreeds from breeding. Lets analyze each claim separately.

The first claim is that by preventing Jacqueline from wearing her dress, the school violated her rights to free speech. I'm actually surprised that the lawyer is attempting to argue this angle. Any good law student is aware that free speech is not completely free. There are limits as to what qualifies as freedom of speech. These limits, were in part, established by Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., a supreme court justice. While ruling on Schneck VS US, Holmes famously wrote that one should not shout fire in a crowded theatre. That is, when speech has the potential to cause great amounts of harm, then that particular speech should be restrained. Although Jacqueline's high school is mostly white, there was still potential for divisive harm from the presence of her dress. The school was right to not allow her in.

Libertarians often snit when that case is brought up. They argue that Holmes later backpedaled on this decision, and the decision itself was the greatest blow free speech could suffer. I'm not quite sure I agree with that logic. If someone were to incite a crowd to murder, then the individual who motivated the murder should be responsible, even if s/he had no direct role in its being played out. The murder would not have happened without the speech. In the same vein, if someone shouts fire in a crowded theatre, and many people die while attempting to escape, the person who shouted fire should be held responsible. Yes, he had freedom of speech, but the consequences of that freedom should be borne. By this logic, Jacqueline was exercising her freedom of speech by showing up at the prom, but the consequences that resulted from this speech being exercise were promptly applied. She wore the dress, so she didn't dance.

The second claim is that the school violated her right to protect her heritage. I understand that she's proud to be a southerner, and that to many the confederacy and the resulting war of secession was a matter of national pride and a defiant stand against a repressive federal government, but they cannot deny that slavery played an important role in confederate identity. Because of this, there cannot be a clear demarcation between the confederacy and slavery. Pride in confederacy is pride in slavery. Perhaps I'm a bit hasty with my thinking. It is possible to like the country, but not those who run the country, or the industry behind the country, but when the symbol of the country is demeaning, then perhaps that pride should not be so blatant. If the school were to allow Jacqueline to wear the dress based on the fact that she is promoting her heritage, then the school needs to allow others to wear clothes that promote their heritage. This opens the door to all sorts of indecency. I can picture people walking through the halls, wearing Nazi flags, and glorifying Pol Pot. After all, if your heritage is German or Cambodian, then you should be allowed to celebrate your heritage.

Would the Sons of Confederate Veterans be so quick to defend a girl who wanted to wear a nazi dress to prom?

Maybe they should have let her wear that dress to prom, provided that she absolve them of any damages if she happened to get her white ass beat. I'd also like her to wear that dress in the south side of Chicago, or the southeast side of D.C., armed with only her southern pride and her stunning logic. Lets see if the residents of either area appreciate what she thinks of her "heritage."

And, really, I know that she's aware of her heritage, but isn't it disrespectful to a flag to use it for other purposes than a flag? I know I'd find it a bit odd that the American Flag was being used as a tacky, sequined night dress. Why doesn't she feel the same amount of respect towards the symbol of her heritage?

People scare me.

'nix Update

I know it has been a few days since I've last posted. This is a result of several factors, which include a very bored sister and a very bored Jon. My sleep schedule has also been haphazard. A tired Jon does not blog. A tired Jon looks at the white walls of his parent's house and frets that they are closing in and that he will soon perish of utter ennui. That being said, it is quite dull here. I don't know how long this entry will be because I am racing against my mother. Three days of constant pestering have finally broken her. She will take me to downtown Phoenix.

I like knowing the area in which I live. It makes me feel comfortable to have a locus in my life. Within weeks of moving to a new place, I will know the location of several major points of interest and at least three different ways to get there. Anyone who knows me will agree. I will also know some hole-in-the-wall places that many locals have yet to discover. This is one of my few neurotics. I like knowing where things are. Because I do not have any mode of transportation, and because none will be given to me because, and I quote, I have "...crashed every vehicle you've ever owned, from bicycle to motorcycle," which is an utter lie because I did not crash my truck (the two deer don't count), nor have I crashed my Sable and the motorcycle that I currently do not have, I am quite trapped in my sleepy red-neck town.

Yeah. Everything around here is redneck, including the metropolis of Phoenix. Apparently there are two constants in this area: rednecks, and geriatrics. Between Surprise and Phoenix are two Sun Cities. Sun Cities are where old people go to die, but want their own homes rather than their own apartment in some ramshackle nursing hell-place. To be fair, Sun City is a nice retirement association. If I ever make it to "old," I would not mind living in a Sun City. My grandparents currently meander about a very nice Sun City home. But, the fact of the matter is, most of the residents of Sun City are simply geriatrics who drive slow while confused. I'm told they have a particular taste for eating motorcycles and I am admonished, often while close to tears, to not get a motorcycle because the geriatrics will get me. I am torn between laughing and jumping under the bed from fright of the geriatric bogeymen with their motorcycle lust.

As far as Redneck goes, I suppose I can live with them. Most of the automobiles around here are some form of pick-up truck. Many of the pick-up trucks have been modified to give them fatter tired. The trucks are too fucking clean to have been used off-road, so I'm assuming that this is a form of redneck bling. Now, I'm as far from redneck as a pasty-assed Jew from the city gets, but I can hang with my brothers, yo. I think that if enough drink were stuck in me, I would even schtup (fuck) their women, although it probably would take quite a bit of booze for me to jump the bad-teeth, stringy-tit obstacle.

Aside from rednecks, geriatrics, and other assorted worries, Phoenix is quite inescapably dull. There seems to be no nightlife, no underground music scene, and no mad, mad people driven by the bomp-bop of life. I have desperately been on the hunt for anything that resembles nightlife. The last time I was here, I visited two bars. One was a local redneck dive bar that featured big-yet-low-slung titted waitresses with bad teeth, and truckers attempting to do karaoke. It was strangely scary. The second bar was a bit younger, and featured wiggas attempting to rap to Eminem. Really. This is the local scene. I am told that there is a Latin Discotheque in a town called El Mirage, but I am forbidden to go there by my mother for fear of her car being jacked. I was tempted to ask her if the little brown people were out to get her but I have pushed my luck too much these days.

My sister's friends came in for our Chanukkah party. They are quite gay. Normally their sexuality wouldn't be an issue, but all of the homosexuals I've known, and I've known quite a bit (a-la Gallaudet), are quite intimate with the nightlife. I took it upon myself to pester them in order to find out any kind of information that would be relevant. I found out the following things: there is no nightlife, there is a lot of titty bars, there's not much here but rednecks and geriatrics, all the bars close at 1am, but a new law lets them close at 2am. Last night, I decided to quiz my sister as well. I mean, she has been living here for at least four months. Were I living in a location for four months, I'd know where almost everything was. Unfortunately, my sister is not me and she only knows the location of a few record stores. But, she did tell me that most of the people our age, who live in the Phoenix, marry at 18 and pop a few fuckers out by 22 and 24 (our respective ages).

Well, fuck me. I've just moved to a larger, warmer version of Bloomington-Normal. Out of sheer desperation, I turned to the Internet in search of something that resembled a dance club. True to my sister's friends' warning, there's not much here but titty-bars. I've nothing against titty-bars, but I do prefer to touch rather than watch, and I'm very much a dancer who needs to get his fucking groove on otherwise people get hurt. Capice? And, what the fuck is it with people getting married and popping kids out so early? Is life so threatening that they feel the need to end it so soon? I bet they all vote republican too, and attempt to blither about family values and morality. Kids, don't talk to me about those issues until you've managed to live something that resembles a life. Not that my drinking and whoring are the best indicators of life, but I firmly believe that true life cannot be experienced under the boundaries of married and familial hell.

So, my mother's taking me to Phoenix today. She's telling me that it resembles a suburban downtown, but I am convinced that Phoenix will somehow resemble Chicago. I will go there and discover a hidden light-rail system (there isn't any), and a bunch of nifty neighborhoods that resemble Wriglyville, Wicker Park, China Town, and others (there aren't any), and everything will be happy-dory, peachy-keen.

Fuck. I'm delusional and won't last more than a year here before I scatter to California.