a deus ex machina is still an ending

We all have our crazy. It is the sort of thing that, when dropped on a first date, you immediately regret. Across the table reflects back at you the sort of quizzical expression that openly reads “I am not going to call you later, but I will tell my friends about you in a story that starts with three words: so, funny story.” Typically, our crazy is the sort of thing that people learn to appreciate once they get to know you and already have fond feelings for you. You know, like that car you had with the weird door handle or the missing volume knob or the sunroof that only opens halfway. If you were choosing this car new, you would hardly find it appealing. But once you’ve spent ten thousand miles with the gal, you come to appreciate the fact that the glove box pops open when you hit the brakes too hard. Don’t worry, you reassure new passengers, that’s just her way of saying hello!

This crazy is not like racism or kleptomania or Teabagging (hehehe). Nor am I talking about the sort of crazy like a familial history of alcoholism or the fact that you once hit a neighbor’s cat with your car and kept driving. Not the sort of crazy that makes you a menace to society. I am talking about the kind of crazy we all have and we all can typically keep in check.

Ever since I was a young kid, I have never liked people to be able to predict my behavior. One specific story that comes to mind comes from first grade. I was coloring some thing that they make you color in first grade, and because I was 6, I was coloring it rainbow colors. Because when you are 6, that is what you do. I colored the first section red, the second section orange and, while reaching for the yellow crayon, an older boy sneered. “Yellow, green, blue, purple,” he said mockingly. Little Jesse looked insulted. “No,” he said incredulously and picked up the blue crayon. (It was a very adverbial conversation).

Since then, it has realized itself in a weird but not life-threatening manner. I get uncomfortable looking at the same display case as other people as I don’t want them to know which shirt I am going to choose or which shampoo an ad on TV convinced me to buy. When I grocery shop, I sometimes get myself into trouble. I don’t like the cashier to be able to predict what I am going to make. Like, I would not like to buy a box of brownie mix, a bottle of oil and a dozen eggs. You know, because Grocery Store Cashiers are the arbiters of culture and couth. The problem that occurs is that I often find myself not wanting to buy complete meals, lest the cashier recognize that I am going to make a lasagna or a meatloaf tonight (and judge me accordingly). Instead, I buy an array of food and am faced with a conundrum at home. I mean, I guess I get what I want, as no cashier will be able to guess what I want to make with half a dozen sweet potatoes, a box of cereal, a jar of salsa, two cans of beans, yogurt, butter, lettuce, frozen peas and carrots, and a box of microwave popcorn. Sadly, neither do I. Which leads to some interesting meals. Beans and popcorn! My favorite!

I also get into trouble because I don’t like to be difficult either. So, much of my energy is spent trying to find some real estate between unassuming and unpredictable—not exactly a low-rent neighborhood. Hi, I’ll have whatever beer you have on tap but I don’t want to be a light-beer-guy or a imported-draft-guy or a domestic-draft-guy or a beer-snob or a beer-fool so what do you suggest but don’t take too much time or energy I don’t want to be a burden or be too picky. Take your time. Serve that guy first if you want. I’m not in any rush.

Sometimes it hits me out of nowhere.

Guy in front of me in line: Hi, I’d like the exact X that Jesse wanted.

Jesse: Blast!

Cashier: What can I get you?

Jesse: ……………..Y.

Cashier: Great!

Jesse: Goddamnit.

I don’t want her to think I heard that guy’s order and thought it sounded good and got the same thing, or that my order is so common that everyone likes it and I have no original thoughts. But also, I don’t want to take too long to pick something new. So, here I am, eating the third item from the top on the menu, whatever it turns out to be.

Like so much of our crazy, there are days when it is fine and in check and I am a fully functioning member of society. And then there are days when it flares up out of nowhere.

Say, at a restaurant:

Jesse: I’d like the salad…(oh god, I ask for dressing on the side it’s like oh trying to lose a little of that tummy there, tubs…but if I don’t it’s like I’m one of those people who thinks that just because it has the word salad in it, it is somehow healthy despite the bacon, cheese, and ranch dressing…but then I don’t want him to know that I think that I am fat and be that guy who only thinks about how fat he is…but I don’t want him to think I don’t know I’m fat…but I don’t want him to think that I am fat and unhappy because that is just sad…but come on, fat and happy might be worse…wait, what were we doing?) …

Waiter: …

Jesse: …Thank you.

Recently, at the library, I spent a good amount of time looking for a book I wanted to read that was not turned into a movie or by an author who had another work turned into a movie because I didn’t want anyone to think that I had only heard of House of Sand and Fog or Chuck Palahniuk because I had seen the movie (even though I hadn’t seen House of Sand and Fog and I hated Fight Club with a passion). Especially since the last few fiction books I had checked out were made into movies. Who is judging me, you ask. The automated check-out machine? The book return slot? The magical gremlin-snob that lives in my room and sees the books that sit on my desk? I don’t know either. But whatever inanimate / mythical thing that is judging me is quite the motivator.

Well, I think this entry might be going nowhere, so I’ll leave you with this. Another problem with the word crazy is that it does not translate well, culturally or otherwise. One time, I made one of my campers cry because of it. He was an odd Japanese boy who spoke limited English and would often shout his own name as if he were a Pokemon. One of the activities at camp was gak-making, which resulted in a series of, well, incomprehensible questions from Kosuke.

Kosuke: Are you from gak planet?

Jesse: What?

Kosuke: Kosuke!!!!!

Jesse: You’re crazy.

Kosuke: *CRY

Jesse: …

Have a nice day.

my favorite line from hamlet: oh, i am slain!

Be yourself. So say Chris Cornell and the genie from Aladdin and at least one episode of every family sitcom or teen drama ever written. Plus, that Polonius guy did. It remains one of those ubiquitous morals that we are supposed to take away from every awkward middle schooler who stuffs her bra and every high school nerd who tries to fit in with the jocks for a day by making fun of his once-and-future friends. I think the idea is supposed to be that “everyone is different, and that’s okay.”

But, it’s not. Be yourself is really “everyone is different, and different people shouldn’t interact with each other (so just accept your lot in life, you flat-chested nerd).” Be yourself is more often than not a request to stop something than it is to be anything. It is actively being passive, as opposed to actively being.

Not only that, it is doled out as advice in the toughest of decisions. Don’t know what to do, don’t know which path to take? Well, just be yourself! Oh, okay! Thank god. I thought I might actually have to choose between things. Now, the answer is clear. I should just be myself!

…

…

…

Now what?

I just don’t understand why it continues to be a thing. Has anyone ever been told that and then felt elucidatory sense of revelation?

I have a problem with the idea that we have one true self that was somehow created upon birth. From the moment we emerge from the womb (or, depending on your religious and scientific belief, when sperm meets ovum) engraved into our being is some immutable self that is more pure and more true than the eventual socialization that occurs with, well, living. And we can talk Plato and Aristotle all we want, but it is still a ridiculous idea.

Worse yet, to me, is the idea that people shouldn’t have to change themselves ever. Just be yourself! I mean, people mean that to a point. Just be yourself (unless you’re a racist, then don’t be yourself)! Yes, obviously. But, be yourself, even if you don’t fit in, even if no one likes you, even if everyone actually hates you. Sure, okay. That’s fine, if that’s what you want to do. Fair enough. But the idea that “well, if people don’t like you, maybe the problem is you (and it probably is)” is somehow cruel advice is beyond me. Some things are just not likable. So you either got to change them or own them. One or the other. But changing them does not make you a bad person. In fact, you just might be the better person. I know several people who could better both themselves and the world by changing who they are.

And ultimately, it is nonsense. Be yourself. Oh okay. Hold on. Right now I am embodying this host body like a body snatcher, but if you give me a minute, I can return to my true form. You are always yourself! It’s just that sometimes that self is a self-involved, pandering, trying-too-hard douchebag. But, yes, that is still being yourself! And certainly, I do not want you to be that self more. Don’t be yourself!

I think what they mean is to tell the truth. Don’t lie. Sure. I’m against the idea of people, say, pretending they’re doctors and treating people. I am also against people pretending they have had experiences that they have not. You did NOT grow up watching that TV show that ended before you were born! Don’t become a fan of it on Facebook! Some people just love to participate in experiences that they don’t belong to, desperately glomming onto every tragedy or joke, trying to suck the marrow out of it like the starving cavewoman in the video they showed us in sixth grade to show us how cavepersons survived (apparently, by sucking the marrow out of bones) (also, Microsoft Word did not accept “cavepeople” as a word, but was fine with “cavepersons,” and I am inclined to let them have it).

One thing that KILLS me is Americans who use the world “football” to describe soccer. Unless you also say “lift” and “rubbish” and bin” and “tube” and the other goofy words that British people use to describe things with much more normal names (Brolly? Really?), you can’t say football. Also, if you did not grow up within the British Commonwealth, you cannot say any of those words. We don’t queue up. We don’t eat crisps. We don’t put petrol in our lorries. We don’t wear jumpers or trainers that our mum bought us. Sorry, you live in America.

For the record: the argument that “it’s football, you kick the ball with your foot” is nonsense. I refuse to even acknowledge that as a thought. Just like whenever someone brings up the parkway / driveway nonsense. Things have funny names. Get over it. Don’t even mention it because it is neither observant nor comedic. Just shut up.

But all of that does not fall under “be yourself” but “stop being a douchebag,” which again, is not “be yourself” but “CHANGE yourself.” And that is change we can believe in. Yes! We! Can! (Seriously, stop.)

the third tier is still high enough that you'd die if you fell from it...

I don’t front. I am a huge American Idol fan. Intellectuals and snobs may turn up their noses, but I just don’t care. I love it. Well, I loved it. In the past few seasons, it has been quite abusive to me (when I have showed it nothing but love), but that’s not the point. The point is that I am a huge fan. Perhaps bigger than you’ve ever met. I don’t just watch the show and enjoy it. A good portion of my brain space is irreversibly committed to who sang what knowledge. Or to contestants you probably don’t even remember (I love you, Nikko Smith). And sometimes it pops out in what could be embarrassing conversations. Embarrassing if you front, which if you read my first line, I do not. Conversations like:

Person: Wow, I can’t believe Adam Lambert sang “Satisfaction” [on season 8 of Idol]. I wonder what it took to get the Stones to release that song to be covered.

Jesse: Well, Bo Bice sang it in season 4.

Person: Really?

Jesse: Oh, and Gina Glocksen sang “Paint It, Black” in season 6.

Person: …

Jesse: Yeah, you just got schooled.

Perhaps you are wondering to yourself, who was the 11^th contestant voted off in season 3? Why that would be Matthew Rogers. What song did he sing? That would be “Amazed” by Lonestar. You know who else sang a Lonestar song? Well, Anthony Federov sang one in season 4 (“I’m Already There”). Perhaps you are wondering what song Katharine McPhee auditioned with. Well that would be “God Bless the Child.” Mikalah Gordon also sang that song on the show (2^nd week of the semifinals) and for the season 4 CD.

I have had a two-digit number’s worth of dreams in which I am a contestant (and one in which I was a contestant on So You Think You Can Dance. I had told everyone I know to watch me on the show and then it dawned on me that I can’t dance. Panic.). I have without irony used the sentence, “I worry what I would pick for ‘Country Week.’” I have correctly predicted, based on the theme, what a contestant will sing multiple times (two weeks in a row I said, “ugh I bet he’s going to sing/ruin X” right before David Cook came out and was right [“Always Be My Baby’ and “Music of the Night”]). And boom goes the dynamite.

But, despite all of this, I would not classify myself beyond the 3^rd tier of fandom. I truly believe there exists at least two higher echelons of fans. I have never spent money on any Idol merch other than music (which I argue is the one piece of merchandise you are supposed to buy. Right? It is a music show. Shouldn’t you buy the music?). That is, I have never seen the show in person or attended any of the tours. I have never bought a t-shirt or poster or anything like that. So, there is a level of fan that does that, which has to be higher than me. If you are walking around sporting a t-shirt with David Archuleta’s smiling face on it, you automatically outdo my knowledge that Diana DeGarmo came out first in the semifinal rounds of season 3 and sang “I Got the Music in Me.” (Seriously, I got like a B- on my British Literature quote identification midterm. This ability cannot be used for good, only evil.)

But then there is that top tier: actually crazy people. I make no claims of sanity, and those Jordin Sparks-clad fans are certainly not excluded from the tea party, but there is a level of crazy that runs just inexplicably deep. For example, nothing having to do with American Idol has come remotely close to making me cry (nor should it). I would never, ever, ever enter the world of online message boards about the show. Ever ever ever. Ever. The extreme emotional connection people feel and, for some reason, have to share with this online community of fellow crazies is stupefying. Something about the level of anonymity combined with the actual disconnect from the show (were you on it?) and the reality that it is just a TV show (yes, just) creates this perfect storm of overreaction and misplaced passion that could knock a moving freight train out of its tracks. There exists this legion of superfans that send hate mail to votefortheworst.com and make signs to hold up at their televisions for, presumably, contestants who cannot possibly see them and organize petitions to get their “unfairly” ousted favorite contestant back on the show.

But this isn’t Idol’s fault. I actually believe it is the other way around. American Idol didn’t make crazy fans out of these people; these people were always crazy. Like really, actually, I don’t know if they should be allowed to drive, please tell me these people are not responsible for children crazy. The kind of people that, after revealing their obsession, you discreetly feel for your keys should the need for a weapon arise. The kind of people that don’t seem to notice that your eyebrows had permanently risen since they started talking to you. The kind of people that you don’t make sudden movements around. These people, they just happen to direct all that crazy toward American Idol. Anything that has regular fans has crazy fans. TV shows, celebrities, comic books, Barack Obama. In fact, I bet things you didn’t think could have regular fans have crazy fans. I’m sure there are people out there with deep emotional attachments to the varieties of pudding or the styles of nail clippers or the brands of decks of playing cards.

Also, just to go back a tic, I hope that the inventor of the caps lock key, the inventor of the YouTube comment, and the inventor of “reply all” are sharing a table in Hell for crimes against humanity. Just saying.

Also, it is legal to drink on planes.

I love airports. I do. I don’t love it like I love other things—like, say, pizza. But I still give them the thumbs up. I think my ability to say that I love airports stems from the deep hatred other people have for them. To say I love airports could also be translated as I don’t hate airports with a burning passion of the Christ. I really think some people are at their most miserable in an airport. And, to that, I say a few things. A) You are the one who had all of those kids. And b) just calm the f down! Like seriously. Yes, things cost more in an airport. Yes, you have to take your shoes off. Yes, the lines can get long. But if you aren’t a crazy person, it all goes by quite quickly and painlessly.

On my latest flight, I ran into the usual suspects. The “I have no idea what to do at airport security” people. The “a cup of coffee costs what?!” people. The “what do you mean I can’t carry on 165 bags” people. You know, the sort of (white) people who use phrases like “this is ridiculous” with the sense of entitlement that makes you want to kill yourself. Honestly, if you ever hear those words leave your mouth, it is time to rethink your entire outlook on life.

I imagine these people have never had to work in any industry in which you interact with another human being. Like, yes, it was the guy whose job it is to initial your boarding pass who made up the rule to check your ID. That’s him, the head of TSA. This is where he works. SFO United gates 70 – 89. Calm down, woman.

The key to enjoying airports is getting there early. I always get to airports early. Sometimes, I get there super early. But typically, just regular early. That way, if security takes a long time, that’s cool. Oh, a long line to get my coffee? Awesome. I have three hours to kill anyway.

I think part of loving airports also has to do with living in New York. You won’t have to fight anyone for a seat on the plane. You are already used to paying over five bucks for a cup of coffee and a muffin. You are simply amazed to find bathrooms that have interacted with a mop. All in all, you could do a lot worse (like, say, the R train).

Still, with any flight there is an added bonus. Every flight has something. The added bonus on my flight was that there was a mystery bag that had snuck on board. So after some taxiing (words with two i’s in a row always look funny. Like skiing. Or radii.) we headed back to the gate. People on the plane freaked out. “This is ridiculous!” God forbid airline employees follow national law. The bigger freakouts came from business and first class. Yeah, I bet it is hard sitting in your huge chair that reclines. Your life really is just so hard.

I did get to make my best Jim Halpert face when the head airline stewardess (do they have an official name? Flight queen?) reminded us more than once that “in case of an emergency, you must leave all of your belongings behind” as if it were more applicable to this flight. Great. But I don’t mind. I have had to make announcements before. Sometimes they just don’t go as planned. I suggest writing them down first.

The old guy next to me was one of those old guys who learned to start conversations using the chum method. Dump a bucket of open-ended statements in the water and wait for the sharks around you to bite. I don’t play that game. “I guess it’s all in the name of safety!” he’d say to no one. I usually pretend I don’t speak English (you know, by reading a book). Rude? Maybe. But you have to be careful. Grandpas have these bear trap stories that they unleash on strangers. A polite nibble and suddenly you are desperately trying to gnaw your leg off as he tells you about the time he flew out of St. Louis in 1974. By the way, you should be visualizing someone setting a shark trap for bears or a bear trap for sharks. In any case, this bear-shark ain’t falling for it. Better luck next flight, corrective shoes.

Behind me, just for comic relief, sat the funniest little old Asian lady that you ever did meet. She was the last one on the plane, dragging her carry-on (and by carry-on, I of course mean garbage bag). After the return to the gate to remove the mystery bag, she gleefully announced “we’re here in New York!” I giggled. The French couple next to her didn’t get the joke. I think it was a joke. Either that, or I meanly laughed at a confused old lady. But I prefer to think that I laughed at the expense of the French couple.

The old Asian lady apparently hated San Francisco, told the French couple they were gorgeous and interrogated them about when they were having kids, and proudly announced she was taking a cab to Connecticut. And as it turns out, the old gal could book it. The second the armed door open, the lady was, garbage bag in hand, out of the plane.

She blew past the James Spader look-alike who had earlier thrown a huge fit over the return to the gate. He of course threw a fit again. He started with the “Excuse me” (yes, it is said with a capital E) and shouted (to no one. Seriously. She was gone.) “why are you in such a hurry?”

Now if I were an airport crazy, I might have punched him in the face. You are the one! You! Sitting there freaking out about nothing! You! But I was still in range of the grandpa tractor beam, so I wasn’t about to reveal my fluency in English. And, I love airports.