I need to work on my plating skills. 

The Art of German Brewing 

It's spring time, for Jon-ny, and Normal, too! 

Snow is a Paean

It snowed this morning. I'm not talking about the kind of snow that drifts gently down on the wind and settles ever so gracefully on your window while you stare outside, mug of hot cocoa in hand, and dream wistfully of white Christmases. I'm talking about the kind of snow that grabs your face and makes sweet, brutal love to it while the wind blows by and snickers at your defilement. I wasn't even expecting it to snow. Sure, the thermometer provided by that damned Weatherbug (May its soul and insufferable dings rot in some cold level of hell) showed a thirty-degree reading, but the weather has been colder this week and blue skies have been gleaming for awhile. It may have been cold but the colour outside radiated a small glimmer of spring. I've been hunkering down and praying that at some point, the weather would rise over fifty degrees. And it did, actually, this Sunday. We hit seventy and the town literally rejoiced. I could have sat outside all day and ogled the various girls taking advantage of the warm weather to put on nice, tight clothes and go for a run, but I went out with a friend and had my own kind of fun. That makes today's weather incursion particularly galling (for photo evidence, see http://daedalusfalling.blogspot.com) and I stood outside for some time shaking my very covered first at the sky. That didn't do much, I'm afraid, and I eventually found myself covered with a fine layer of snow.

Ma Nature: 1.
Jon: 0.

After midterms, the snow turned to hail. Ma Nature knew exactly what I needed after a blue-book midterm, a bunch of little rocks pelting me from the heavens. I think there are angels up there macking on popcorn and laughing at my misery.

Right now, it's raining. Beh.

------


Given the lousiness of my morning and the agony that is a blue-book midterm (my poor hands), it is only natural that I needed a grease fix. If y'all know me, then you know a grease fix means Micheleos.

I've written about Micheleos every so often. They have the best deep dish pizza outside Chicago. I'm convinced that they import Chicago grease and pump it into their cheeses. It's the only way that a Micheleo's deep dish can taste so authentic. When my family comes here in May to see me graduate (Oh lord, that's two months away), they will be required to eat at Micheleo's with me. I'm not going to Phoenix without the proper amount of Chicago grease in me. Granted, my parents house is near a Rosatti's, which was our favorite chain back in the 'burbs, but the pizza doesn't have the same authentic taste as a Chicago style pizza. That's because it doesn't have Chicago-grease.

The pizza, while the closest thing to sex on the beach as one can get, isn't the entire appeal of Micheleo's. The decor holds as much significance to me as the food. Micheleo's environment reminds me of the pizza parlors my family used to visit when I was a kid. In other words, it looks like it's straight out of the 70s, and 80s, and as such, carries that unique Midwestern flair that compels me to wonder if I'll ever find something similar out on the west coast.

The walls of Micheleo's are wood paneled, with tar-stained tan wallpaper that stretches from wood panel to wood ceiling. From the wall hangs various stained glass apparel advertising Michelob beer (all we need is an old style ad, and we're back on the south side). In the corner of the restaurant are old arcade machines and a few pinball machines. Opposing the bling of the pinball machine is a jukebox, and a dart board that I played with once and immediately stopped because the speakers on the thing are turned so that a bad throw becomes a bad show to most of downtown Normal. In the middle of the restaurant are chairs anchored by a faux-wood table and on either side of the restaurant are studded leather benches adorned by a faux-wood table attached to the wall. The ordering station is nothing more than a half-wooden wall that can be stepped behind to reach a beer station, a pizza station, and a pop-dispensing machine. The menu is on the wall and the letters are affixed through means of plastic hooks on the back of each letter.

Tell me, isn't that a pizza parlor, or what?


--------

I have begun taking my pictures of the day. I'm not quite sure how that will transfer over to my Livejournal blog, but I'll figure something out. I'm sure a link can be provided easily.

For those of you wondering, my camera is a Sony Cybershot 4.1 Megapixel. No flash is on, and red-eye is off. As I gain better technical understanding of my camera, I'll begin manipulating the options more. For now, the simple point and click features are good enough for me. One day, I might invest in filters. That will be exciting.


-------

Come on baby, light my fire. Please? Pretty please?

Daylight come and me wanna go home

I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing better than a hot shower. It tops even sex and motorcycle riding (sometimes) in terms of marginal value. Too much sex leads to chafting, weariness, urinary tract infections, and a strange decline in my libido. Too much motorcycle riding leads to pain in both my body and my wallet. Too much hot showers leads only to cold showers and pruny hands. Taken as a whole, the occasional loss of hot water, and the not-so-very-aesthetically pleasing aspects of pruny hands (although it takes massaging to a whole new level), has lower overall Jon-deflating power than pain that makes me walk like I've been raped, and issues with the little man down there. Certainly, all three will bring me up when I've been down, and I've certainly been down, baby, but only in the shower can anything and everything be done with near perfection (I have learned, though, that I need mad-contortionist skills to perform oral sex in the shower).

I have eaten in the shower. The hot water made the apple sweeter. I have performed various sexual acts in the shower. I have soaked. I have written. I have thought. I have dissolved. I have shouted. I have sung. I have done everything that encompasses the life I need. Were I given a choice between an evening with a Penthouse model, and a nice, long, hot shower in an incredible bathroom, I would most likely go with the shower (I think...), because I know that the shower is a guaranteed good thing. Besides, if I'm lucky, I might be able to lure the Penthouse model in with me. Come on. Dual heads? Rain-head? Hot water? Steam? Pruny hands? Yeah. That's the ticket.

So, if you haven't gathered, I took a nice, long, hot shower tonight and that was the egress of my troubles. I didn't do anything but stand there and let the hot water run over me, for a very long time. Then, I cleaned myself because I realized that my roommates would eventually break down the door in a crazed, mad rush for the toilet. The last thing I need in this apartment is a roommate writhing on the bathroom floor, screaming something about Francis Bacon and bladders (I know, it's a myth, even so).

Between soaking and soaping, I did a bit of thinking. I thought about three things, actually: motorcycles, road tripping, and Phoenix. Anyone who knows me knows that I absolutely adore motorcycles, much to my family's chagrin. I'm afraid they're just going to have to accept that motorcycles will always be part of my life. It's not just the danger than enthralls me, but the adrenaline rush and the absolute freedom I experience when floating around the road. I can't think of anything else that gives me that sensation. I can tell you for sure, that given a choice between a night with several Penthouse models, and a brand, new motorcycle, that I'd choose the motorcycle in a heartbeat and leave the Penthouse models to gyrate in their own whatever. You heard me. Motorcycles are better than all the sex in the world. I know a few of you are thinking that I probably haven’t found the right partner yet, but I've had enough partners and sexual encounters to know that sometimes, a machine tops a woman. Having a motorcycle means I need to do some money things. I will call my mother tomorrow and tell her not to send me money for shipping. I will man up and take care of my shipping with my own money, even if it means I might have to drink less in April and May.

Of course, thinking about motorcycles leads to the inevitable thoughts about road trippin'. It's been awhile since I've had a really good road-trip. I'm not talking about those one-day 700-mile dashes on the highway. I'm talking about those séances on small roads through small towns. I believe the last time I had a really good road-trip was when The Lynn (She gets her name mentioned because she's good like that) and I took the PCH, or the 1, down from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Looking back, I wish we left earlier, because by the time we hit Big Sur, the sun had gone and the rest of the road was pitch black. Even so, it was marvelous and quite spiritual. We stopped many times on the way just to scope out the environment and the stars on some mountain road. I also had religious experiences with jellyfish, and a seagull that found it fit to shit on me, but that's a story for another time.

I want to go on a road-trip from Normal to Phoenix. I have friends on the way that wouldn't mind letting me shack up, and I'm buying a tent soon anyway, so gaps in between friends can be spent at camping grounds. I'm also hoping that my Uncle won't mind if I crash at his place. I don't know my Uncle very well and I'm sorry about that. He has, recently, been spending a bit more time with the family, which makes me happy. I've seen him more times over the last few months than I had in a combined decade. I think part of the reason he's doing the family thing is that my sister and I are grown and are a bit more people to him. Also, his new fiancée(?) D. is hot shit and we all like her very much. My Uncle is invited partially because everyone wants to hang with D. more. D. is from Scotland and has this delicious accent. She's also on my side about the motorcycle issue, which improves her standing greatly, in my book. But, yeah, I'd love to shack at my Uncle's place for a day or two before heading down to Albert Quirky to visit Dardybums. It's in Colorado, outside Denver, which means beauty abound and nice, winding mountain roads.

Phoenix is constantly in my thoughts. I don’t know what to think of it. The warmth appeals to me, and the mountains that are practically in my parent's backyard is as inviting as a succulent meal laid on a dinner table. I very much want to climb them and ride mountain bikes down their sides as fast as I can. I'm a bit afraid of scorpions, though, but have assured myself that I will be wearing big-ass shoes that will flatten any arthropod that waves its fucking tail at me. My only problem with Phoenix, other than the crushing heat of summer and the lack of anything that resembles green and water, is my complete unfamiliarity with the area. It sound silly, especially coming from me, to hesitate going somewhere completely new, but I've always had a sanctuary in Chicago waiting for me. If I was fed-up with the unknown, I could simply head back to my precious grease-land and recuperate. Chicago is home. Phoenix isn't yet. It'll take some time, but I think I can make Phoenix home. If I can't, everyone knows that I'm heading to Central California. But, all my family is in the Southwest. I really want to try to make that area home before I leave them all hundreds of miles away. Certainly, I could make it with all of them far, and I have before, but I have done and will do a lot that will make my mother’s mental state go awry. The least I can do is provide her an easy avenue of visitation, if I won't do anything else she asks.

I have put out tendrils to the deaf community in Arizona and no one has picked them up. I am beginning to think that deaf people in Arizona are a closed lot and that I will have to pry them open much like an oyster gets shucked. I am relentless and I do not give up. I will make friends and have lots of them.

Yeah. Shower thoughts.

-----

The past week has been very much an exhibition of insomniac Jon. I have stayed awake to obscene hours, fretting over my inability to sleep. At first, I blamed the blue light. The blue light is part of a USB hub, which has sat quite uselessly on the top of my computer housing. I bought it with dreams of a functional hub from which I could plug in all sorts of accessories. It was one of those dreams, which would appear on T.V. with hazy outlines and cheesy love music. The dream was not to be (cue melodrama). It and my printer had a huge row and the printer decided not to work as long as the hub was plugged in. I had to plead with the printer for a good afternoon before it would work. Unfortunately, my methods of persuasion involved unplugging the damned hub. It came to me that I could alternate between hub and printer as needed, but once the hub was out and the printer was in, the hub stayed out and the printer now sits on my bookshelf with a very smug appearance. Snotty shit, it is, but I need the printer more than I need the hub. So, the hub hasn't been doing much but gathering dust and emitting that damned blue light. The fucker cost me fifteen bucks, too.

When I write that the hub emits a blue light, I'm not talking about a cute little blue snatch in a cute little blue box. I'm talking about the kind of light that casts a hellish glow in a dark room. Lighthouses everywhere use this hub in order to ward ships off from impending doom. Riceboys use this hub to create cool, but pathetically wanting effects in their souped up Hondas. There is a special room in hell, where these hubs are lined up. The room is full of people trying to sleep in the drilling noise of blue lights.

Yeah, the blue thing has been keeping me awake. I felt its oppressing wave lengths pounding against my eyeballs and I'd open them to see the blue looking at me and casting little blue shadow-things on the wall. Well, the other day, I had enough of that shit and I unplugged the hub. The blue light went, but my insomnia stayed. I think there's other things on my mind that need pondering, but in the mean time, the hub is dead and it's just passing time being a dust residence.


----

I need to take more pictures.

Love it when you call me Big Pop-pa

Every so often I have startling moments of clarity when I realize that my current life is so banal and I have to fight desires to sell everything, including my education, and hop a bus west towards Big Sur, California. I'm not exactly sure what I would do there other than exist, think, and write, but then I remember that I enjoy eating and traveling, and I dont write that much anyway. How long has it been since my last entry? Probably too long. I know I told myself that I'd write a little each day, but some days, the effort it takes for me to write is not worth the finished product. It's funny, you know, because I tell people that writing is my artistic medium and I'm not actually writing. Aristotle always said that reality is a product of form expressing its function. Does that mean if I don't produce writing, I cease to exist? That's a question that bodes some meandering. At this point in time, I wouldn't mind ceasing to exist.

Graduation is coming up and I feel that I'm not ready. I am ready to get out of here, I mean, but I don't feel prepared in any way for the real world, I guess. Most of my development over the last four years has not really been intellectual. I've learned a lot about people, myself, and the world, but I dont feel that I've really learned anything from class. I guess that is the real purpose of college; to make one better adapted to tolerate the world, but I wonder if I could have done the same thing without college. Certainly, I dont wish to work a McJob, but I think that I am intelligent enough to ascend great heights without a college degree. It is unfortunate that my inability to hear would probably regulate me to a printer's job, or some other deaf-related service job, but I detest blaming much on my deafness even though it does define me as a person.

In truth, all I want to do is run away to the downtown of some large city and join an artist commune. We could stay poor, and compose poetry with our bodies and our pens in the many ratty alleys that vein each metropolis. I wonder whom'd I'd end up with in this situation? I imagine her with dark hair and blue eyes, with a supple body hidden behind the loose clothes of poverty. Would we make love in the morning and then pepper each other with random poetic musings and harsh, sardonic mockery of people and society? If I wish hard enough, maybe she'll have red hair and green eyes (I know, I know), and a mind that doesn't ever stop working. I'd read her writing over lunch in some cheap coffee shop and spend time musing about the different allusions present in verse and body. So, this freckle here represents the massed diaspora of our people and the suffering they had to endure...

Ah, Big Sur. I went fishing for trout in Big Sur and came away with a soggy slice of Americana (Props to Richard Brautigan). It went well with a bit of lemon, and a rosemary/chili rub.

I feel funny complaining about my college education even as I prepare to enter two successive graduate programs. I want a Ph.D bad enough that I can taste it, but for some reason, I cannot compel myself to study hard enough to get there without much difficulty. This is Hollow Jon.

------


I am wearing my boots. This makes me happy. I am wearing old jeans and a white t-shirt. This makes me even happier. I feel like I'm back to old skool Jon. I used to be instantly recognizable by my standard outfit, which was a t-shirt with green parachute pants and heavy black boots. Granted, the outfit was practical, as I spent a lot of time riding motorcycles. I wore that ensemble often enough that people knew I was coming simply by the sounds of my boots stomping the ground.

When I came to Bumfuck, I wore the same outfit, but came to trade my boots for gym shoes, and my t-shirt for something more benefiting of my status as a frat boy. I was eventually persuaded to wear polo shirts, but I still can't look at them with a glimmer of loathing. Certainly, I look good in them, but I also look like every fucking guy on campus. I'm happy that I don't wear hats and thick leather belts, because then I'd blend in the crowd and nobody would recognize me for me. The essential Jon-ness of me would be diluted into some kind of watery normalcy and I'd probably have to sell insurance or something to earn a living.

2.5 kids. White picket fence. WASP-y wife with blonde hair and blue eyes. A SUV in the driveway. Community involvement. Voting my values.

UGH!

Someone kill me if I ever turn out like that.

------


The weather needs to warm up, like, NOW. And I'd like a red head, too, please.