Play it again, Sam

I dont think this post will be long. My mind is kaput. I should have learned long ago that early evening naps do more harm than good, and since awakening a few hours ago I have vacillated between semi-coherency, and semi-lucidity. This present state of mind seems to have been the natural order for the week. Rather than remaining productive, which I should have been as the week ramped up and my workload progressed, I chose to live in a rather static world in which nothing changed except the times and the dates. I would like to blame my behavior this week on a Passover diet, which robs the body of carbs and the mind of energy, but the likely explanation is that I'm simply approaching a spirit of vegetation. Big change is coming and everything from now to then seems nothing more than exercises in the mundane. I work for a lot of nothing. My thesis hit fifty pages the other day. I could have added another section and elongated it to sixty, but decided to not. I have been working on my thesis for over a month. My thesis director told me I was guaranteed an A, which is all nice, but I will receive only one credit for my work. What then of the hours spent over the computer and the stress which cumulated pussy boils on my face? I hate to work for nothing and it feels like nothing is all that's going to come of my degree. I've bounced around college for four years and I come out of it with nothing more than a philosophy degree and a tepid job promise in some state far away. The sad answer to all my dilemma is more schooling, and I intend to acquire a few more degrees. Jon the perpetual college student?

Jon the perpetual college student had first best learn to not mix up his paper due dates.

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The sore on my chin serves as a small reminder than even though I have been lifting weights since I was a freshman in high school, I am still not a massive mountain of man. I occasionally forget this, mostly because people insist on calling me tall and well built. I guess compared to most I may be, but when I find myself in a mosh pit populated by creatures of mass, weight, and height, I don't do much other than get tossed around like a leaf in a tempest. Several times I jumped in only to blink and find myself thrown into the outside ring of the audience. At one point, I took a crack to the jaw and was left looking at the twinkly lights left of stage. We acquire many life lessons through out college, and an important one ought to be that bourbon and mosh pits are not a good combination, and neither is throwing ourselves chin-first into a wailing maelstrom of fists. I like to think I represented, though.

My tribulations awarded me another opportunity to wake up next to a new girl. This free, swinging life is fun.

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I know I have of late been making many posts through my sidekick. I am unusually fond of employing a post-modern style of writing for all sidekick posts. It saves my thumbs a bit of wear-and-tear, and allows me to process all my thoughts quickly and with extreme brevity. The only problem with sidekick posts is that they are extremely addicting and easy to make, which means that a majority of my posts lately have been sidekick. With the sidekick, any time I feel the need to write, I can simply throw the screen open and bang away for a few minutes. Before, when struck by an idea, I would attempt to retain it in my head long enough to present myself before a stationary writing device, like my computer. What usually happens is that I forget what I want to write, or something distracts me enough that I never actually get to write.

The short deal of it is that there will be many sidekick posts to come. I ought to give y'all fair warning.

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This small section does not apply to my blog, but I have imported three pictures taken by a sidekick phone to my livejournal. All bear some explaining.

The picture of the door is evident. My bedroom door found its way off the wall. I want to say that my door attained sentient thought and felt confined by the manacles which bound it, but that would be a fantasy. What really happened was, while drunk, I punched the door and it flew off the hinges. The funny thing was that I was on the inside of the door, which means I was inside my room. The door ripped from the wall, bounced off the chin-up bar, and then slammed on my head. I guess it wanted a chance back at me. After the door-busting incident, I went and devoured the rest of my soup-stock chicken.

Rosencratz has taken to calling me the Junk. The Junk is mild-mannered Jon Henner when calm, but when the Junk manifests, big things get broken, women get laid, and refrigerators get emptied. I am amused, but it is true that I appear to possess super strength when infuriated.

What made me mad, you ask? Well, a girl paged me looking for sex, and then my phone died. Wouldn't you be peeved, too?

The band picture is exactly that. I was in the audience of a concert. My fraternity threw a day-long concert for AIDs charities. We had different area bands come and play. The capper was the house band, The Chase. They rocked out. I drank a pint of bourbon and was very happy.

The other picture is of a house party I attended Wednesday. I drank a pint of tequila and was very happy.

I’m paying for all my happiness, but this is the last week of my true undergraduate career. If I don’t do now, I will never do again.

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Once more into the fray, men.

Sigep band

And we are drunk on bourbon and music

~ I write with your life and my own ~

Again

~ I write with your life and my own ~

House party

A house party. All sorts of people just gather round me. Singing love.

And there's more her you can't see
~ I write with your life and my own ~

A test

I'm testing to see if my blog will accept emails with pictures. Attached
is a camera shot of my bike. If this works then I have a way of
immediately getting pictures to my blog when I'm on the road next week.

~ I write with your life and my own ~

Another round of awesome

I, at first, didn't think much of this picture. It was a quick snap at

some intersection in Bloomington. I thought the old house at the corner

was interesting enough and decided to click it. I didn't realize the

true awesomeness of the picture until I was looking through my files

and I realized that my mirror showed a perfect reflection of my left

half. You can see my helmet, my mesh-padded jacket, and part of the

camera. Very cool.

Yes. I know. I'm awesome.

I owned that chicken. Yeah, it was frozen at first and I had to defrost

it for most of the night, but I eventually ripped its stinking guts out

and got it into the pot. The soup took six hours to cook. I waited

until the meat was literally falling off the five-pound, stewing hen's

bones. My roommates are a bit perplexed at the sheer amount of food I

made. I tried explaining that the only way to cook Jew-food is to make

enough that a small country would be able to eat for weeks. I don't

think the goyim get it. In any case, I've been giving friends small

bowls all day.









And, yes, my soup tastes just like my mother's, except slightly more

chicken-y because I added some chicken thighs to the pot instead of

boullion cubes.

Sideways into the Grave

From the sidekick at 2:26pm

Went in search of matzo. Loaded the bike. Backpack and stretchy thing.
Repeated the mantra, two wheels good, four wheels bad. Orwell spins in
his grave. I think ill get a hatchback when I get to phoenix. A nice
civic clunker or a wood paneled station wagon. Who cares how it looks.
Long as its under a grand and has air conditioning. I can do my own
mechanical work. Give me tools and a book. The parents have a garage.
Think ill put up a cork wall and hang tools. Easy access. Need tools? Go
to the garage. They're splayed on the wall. Metric and 'merican kept
separate. Demarcations make life easy.

First stop was Kroger’s. Got matzo? Sure. Aisle 4. Went to aisle four.
Nothing but mustard and peanut butter. Wander confused. Find another
guy. Got matzo? Sure. We have different brands of mustard, and peanut
butter too. Not mustard, matzo. Please write it on the board, I'm not
getting you. M A T Z O. Hey man, we don't sell that stuff here.

Could go home but decided to swing by the local delicacy mart. Sell
upscale shit. Ten-dollar bars of chocolate. My aunt would swoon. Figured
they'd be worth a shot. If not, I'd at least get Boylan. Nice brand of
soda. They use pure cane sugar. The American corn syrup market oozes in
protest. Once bought a bottle of corn syrup from Wal-Mart. Thought it’d
sweeten my mornings. It didn't.

Found a woman to ask for matzo. She takes me to pasta. Where is the
matzo? There. Not that, matzo. This is pasta there p a s t a pasta. No
ma'am I want matzo m a t z o matzo not pasta. We don't sell that stuff.
I go to get boylans. Sir, if you wish to purchase soda please go to the
front counter. Ma'am, I'm Jewish and deaf, not stupid. Sorry, we aren't
used to either Jews or deaf people in this town. Don't worry ma'am, I
won't commit obscene acts of usury upon your person.

I leave the shop with a godiva dark chocolate bar and boylan ginger ale.
Dry. Pale. Sit outside and enjoy my bike. Duct tape and shattered
plastic sure is sexy. Going to keep it ugly. Theft insurance in phoenix.
Don't think they want old, ugly bikes. Open the chocolate. Break off a
piece. It is sweet.

Told her I wanted a simple love, like my love for motorcycles or dark
chocolate. Find me a girl who is as good as a godiva dark chocolate bar
and I will be happy. sweet. Refined. Sophisticated. Bold. A big booty
helps too. She says love ought to be complicated and rich. Tax forms are
complicated. No one loves the IRS. Chocolate and soda on a spring
afternoon is simple. Who doesn't love that?

Will resume the hunt for matzo after class. So much work tonight. Frat
shit from 7-10. Paper. Bio. I want a list of similes by Tuesday am.
Jahwol. I don't even do this for credit.

The dyke jumps out of the way. A scooter roars past. She shakes her tiny
fist. Lady you look like a ten-year-old boy. I've got more nuts than
you, man. Hillary Swank cries.

The flowers are in bloom. I smell them. Your nose is continental he
asks? It is refined. I see girls by scent. The quiet one in class walks
down the street. I don't call after her. Once approached her after class
to talk. She shook visibly. I scare shy women. You're something else,
she told me. Why's that? Something about you.

Got an email from one of my friends. Your life is this, she wrote. I
paraphrase. Who wants to die pretty? Best fly into the grave with wine,
chocolate, and a battered body, screaming woah, what a ride. Sums me up,
she says. Baby, if you only had an idea.

Been planning my route to phoenix. Original plans slate to little rock.
That is in doubt. Air force is heading to the sandbox again. Am upset but
its not my government. If that doesn't fly, west through Iowa to
Nebraska, and south to Kansas. Have two choices. West to Denver and then
New Mexico, or southwest through Oklahoma and Texas. Want to go through
Colorado, but best through Texas. We shall see. three weeks to plan.
Leave at sunup on the 15th. Aim to be in phoenix by June.

Time of your life. Thanks green day.

~ I write with your life and my own ~


Appendum: Found Matzo. At Jewel. Barely.

The full quote of the quote my friend sent me is below.

Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely, in an attractive, and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, wine in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, screaming “WOAH! WHAT A RIDE!”