ohio to iowa (so many syllables, so few letters)

Some more facts and figures...

Number of Ohio denizens who rolled down their windows to spit at my car from their car: 1 (in his defense, though, i did just drive toward him the wrong way on a one-way offramp by the freeway)
Presidential landmarks i almost visited: 2
Presidential landmarks i visited: 0
Minutes spent outside of the car at Notre Dame campus: 0
Lottery scratchers purchased: 4
Number of winning scratchers: 0
Net gain/loss: -$4

and for those of you keeping count...
Location signs that made me laugh out loud: cumulatively 3 (Kum&Go Gas Stations)
Tanks of gas: 6
Free suite upgrades at Comfort Inns: still just 1 (happy face now sad face)
Traffic tickets: still just 1 (sad face still a little sad face)
Miles driven so far: ~1146
Fast food restaurants visited: 3
State count: 6 (New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa)

to the moon and back

So, here I am, six months later, and perhaps six months wiser (perhaps), but instead of a well-edited entry, I am going to give a quick update on my road trip in life.

Let's make a little list:
Hours before I realized I read I-86 off of my hand as I-80: 3
Location signs that made me laugh out loud: 2 (Johnson City and Chagrin Boulevard)
Tanks of gas: 2
Free suite upgrades at Comfort Inns: 1 (happy face)
Traffic tickets: 1 (sad face)
Miles driven so far: ~462
Fast food restaurants visited: 2
C.D.'s purchased: 2
Jacuzzi baths taken: 1
State count: 3 (New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio)

More to come!

but seriously folks, what the hell was up with that house?

I’m not big on small talk. I know, right? Shocker. A typical mindless social convention I can’t wrap my head around. That just might be the theme of my life. Anyway, on Monday, when buying a new pair of hiking shoes for camp this summer, I ran into something I never expect but always dread—a talkative fellow patron. A TFP is typically an older man, probably white, a little bit fat, and wearing some kind of plaid. He will probably use words that no one uses any more (“dungarees,” “chums”) and remind you why you worry when your dad goes to a store alone to buy something for the whole family. He might be in front of you in line, next to you on a plane, or in this case, also trying on shoes. “I can never find anything here,” he’ll say to you, “what kind of shoes are those?” He remembers the halcyon days of yore when salespeople spoke English and had any idea where anything was—two things that we modern shoppers no longer expect. “What are the ones I had before the ones I had last time?” he asked “Manuel.” “Manuel” did not know.

As annoying as a TFP is, there is a sense of inevitability to it all. A TFP tends to be harmless and good-natured, in no way trying too hard. I’m sure when I am his age, I will have no idea how to get the robot to fix my rocket car. So karma will eventually get me. I like a different approach in stores—avoid the store employees as much as possible. This might be an extension of the whole not-wanting-grocery-store-cashiers-to-know-I’m-making-enchiladas-for-dinner branch of crazy. But it is also a different thing. I don’t want to bother them. I know that working retail is generally awful, and I don’t want to open up a big bunch of crazy on them (I recently started a phone call to a receptionist in San Jose with “so, I have a series of potentially stupid questions” and then took her on a little journey through my orthodontic history and my love of dental hygiene before dropping the fact that I had moved to New York seven years ago).

Even when I have a list of things to buy, I attack it with the Associate Justice Potter Stewart philosophy (you know, “I know it when I see it”). So any store trip takes a few inefficient laps around, just getting a feel for what is there, before I even get down to business. It also turns into a hide-and-seek horror movie scene as I actively try to avoid the salespeople. (Why did he go upstairs? Why do they always go upstairs? There’s no escape! Don’t go into the clearance racks! Doesn’t he know there’s a short girl hanging shirts in there? “Hi, do you need any help?” Run! Run! She has a 10% off your purchase today pending approval of a Gap Credit Card offer!)

I also had an old man ask me for a pair of sandals in a size 8. But he was not a TFP as much as an old, old man who probably had no idea where he was or why some people here wore matching white polo shirts with the Sports Authority logo on it and why some people wore blue hoodies that say “Old Navy Surplus” on them.

In any case, when I go shopping, I am perfectly content finding everything myself and not interacting with anyone. I am not looking to meet a friend as much as I am looking for a reasonably priced pair of sneakers that I like. I suppose that is what a TFP is looking for too—just with a different philosophy. Something like, I am going to find these shoes, and if I make a friend or two along the way, well that’s just fine by me! Something he learned when he lived in Mayberry. The TFP really is just an outdated social convention trying to buy shoes in this cruel modern world. Not the worst thing in the world.

No, the title is held by something else. The worst social interaction of the modern age (and potentially, the worst thing in the world) is the forced nostalgia conversation. You know, when a bunch of people who probably don’t have much in common besides physical location at that moment and, possibly, age, sit around and talk about the things they remember from ten, fifteen years ago. But not remembering shared experiences. No, no. You just sit around and list the movies and TV shows that you all watched as a kid like an unfunny version of a VH1 series.

It starts out better than it ends, for sure. Typically, it begins with more personal anecdotes (“My brother and I used to watch that show after school every day,” “I remember listening to that album over and over on cassette tape in my Casio tape player!”), which is just fine, if told well. Then, midway through, you get to the analyzing the odd logic of old things section (“I know your mom died, but don’t worry, her brother is moving in, as well as this…other guy! But don’t worry, it’s not so creepy because he can do Bullwinkle impressions”), which is sort of like hearing stale stand up comedy. And eventually it just reduces down to naming things (“Remember Ren and Stimpy?”). You don’t even have to qualify it. Just name something! Smurfs! Slap bracelets! Hammer pants! Doesn’t even have to be from the right decade! No one even cares any more! Zack Morris mobile phone! Sophie B. Hawkins! Kurt Cobain’s suicide! The Little Mermaid!!

The true problem is that most the time, people are lying. For some reason, these conversations turn into a big “if you don’t also remember this, you are not cool” party. So, of course you watched every single show that ever played on television between 1982 and 1996, despite the fact that you were born in 1991. Of course you were watching R-rated movies when you were 6. Why wouldn’t you remember music from when you were a baby? I mean, I’m sure that my parents played Madonna and Wham on repeat to me as I lay in the crib, trying to figure out what my toes were. I was singing along the whole time.

Again, there is something to be said for bridging the gaps between people with whom you have nothing in common besides the decade of your birth. That is fine. The problem is when it turns into a desperate attempt to earn the collective approval of the group by inventing a childhood that was not yours. This is not some noble attempt to forget your abusive past. This is pretending you watched a TV show you did not. Way to go. I’m pretty sure if you admit to not watching Rocko’s Modern Life, they will still believe you were born in 1986.

So, really, I’d take a TFP in line with me in the vestibule of a bank any day over a FNC with high school kids ten years my junior. Also, how do you like those initialisms? I hear the kids use them today. Why the face?

i have been working on some real entries, just nothing good apparently

For those of you unfamiliar with my playlists, I like to make one for each season. Each one represents the songs that got a lot of play in the last few months, both new and old. I started doing this back in the summer of 2006 and have been doing 3 – 4 a year since. It is a great way to archive your musical moods and memories. This was not my idea (I blatantly stole it from Holly) but I highly enjoy it. Feel free to steal it yourself. There are only a few “rules” about it. The length of the playlist is dictated by what would fit on a CD and you can only choose one song per artist or album (featured artists don’t count).

This season’s list, Spring 2010, also includes Winter 2009 / 2010. Typically, I make a winter list, but somehow there wasn’t enough material to fill it up. This one is mostly comprised of pop music with a dash of music I saw with Lindsay slash songs that were in ads played repeatedly during the Olympics.

I decided to move the posting of the playlists over to my new blog for no real reason. Older ones can be found here. Enjoy and feel free to judge.

1. Chris Brown – For Ur Love
2. Eric Clapton – I’ve Got a Rock ‘n’ Roll Heart
3. Kris Allen – Alright with Me
4. Mishka – Stay By My Side (acoustic)
5. Usher - Hey Daddy (Daddy’s Home)
6. Lady Gaga – Telephone
7. Justin Bieber (feat. Ludacris) – Baby
8. Taio Cruz (feat. Ludacris) – Break Your Heart
9. Lifehouse – All In
10. K’Naan – Wavin’ Flag
11. Vampire Weekend – Horchata
12. Mary J. Blige – I Love U (Yes I Du)
13. James Morrison – If You Don’t Wanna Love Me
14. Jason Derülo – In My Head
15. Lupe Fiasco – Go Go Gadget Flow
16. JLS – Everybody in Love
17. Los Campesinos! – Straight In at 101
18. Metric – Gimme Sympathy
19. Christina Aguilera – Lift Me Up
20. Train – This Ain’t Goodbye
21. Original Broadway Cast of In the Heights – Blackout

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.

and of course, i end up being the miranda

When I decided to start blogging, I wanted it to be whimsical musings about the inconsequential and a hyperbolic retelling of the things that happen in my life. Entries were supposed to have a beginning, middle, and an end, as well as a title and a theme. The one thing I did not want my blog to be was the “why didn’t he call me back????????????????????????????” sort of nonsense that plagues the internet—and the minds of people everywhere. “This song speaks to exactly how I feel (which is sad)!!!!!!!!!”

But, I started my blog on a Monday night, and on that Tuesday (also known as, less than 24 hours later), I got laid off. But, it was the holidays and hope was high and on and on. But now, hope is low. The “why didn’t he call me back” applies to every employer in New York City. Like, sure, I would love to come in for three interviews and just never hear from you again. My life has sort of a Sex and the City vibe—living in NYC, meeting up with men and women all over for lunchtime rendezvous, giving strangers my phone number and wondering why no one calls. Except without any of the alcohol, friends or sex. He’s just not that into you, indeed.

Job-hunting is not so dissimilar from the world of dating, except instead of wondering if you are going to die alone, you sit around and wonder if you should give up things like health insurance or dental floss or Netflix (for the record, Netflix would go before dental floss but probably after health insurance). So instead of blogging about iPads and dry cleaners and my Justin Bieber haircut, I only really feel like I think about Corinda (my unemployment specialist), which toiletries I could do without (I’m thinking razors and cotton balls), and what sort of daily activities can I do that are free (go to the library, walk the dog, watch Designing Women clips on Youtube) (Dixie Carter, rest in peace).

So, as much as I try not to be a downer to everyone I meet and everything I touch, it just spills out everywhere like the inside of a jelly doughnut. Go ahead and ask, “So, what’s new?” It begins with an exaggerated sigh, followed by an emphatic “nothing AT ALL.” Then we go through the journey of my last couple of fruitless interviews (he answered his cell phone in the middle!) and new life plan (which are sounding more and more like defeatist get-rich-quick schemes). My apologies to anyone I’ve interacted with since, say, mid-February.

I am sure the grass really is greener on the other side, but I find myself looking at people working and feeling like a street urchin staring in on a glorious Sunday Roast—my face pressed up against the window of a Citibank, looking longingly at the desks and phones and mindless Solitaire playing. Please, sir, can I have an interoffice envelope and a Rolodex?

So, what do we do? Stop by the local Dunkin’ Donuts and offer to take the midnight to eight AM shift? Find a senile heiress and marry her on the quick? Learn how to drive a cab? I mean, I live the life that I assume most people would kill for—I get a solid 12 hours of sleep a night, I read books and watch all the TV I want and have plenty of time to do my hair in the morning (and by morning, I mean mid-afternoon). So, I could be doing a lot worse. But soon enough, something’s got to give.

So, gentle reader, I do apologize for blog as of late. You know what they say about our best-laid plans. I had great ideas (and by great, I mean “not pathetic”) that just never came to be. I do have a couple of things cooking, though. So, stay tuned. I do have thoughts on Tiger Woods and new airline fees and the fact that I am wearing a pair of basketball shorts underneath obscenely torn pants because I’m too poor to buy new ones. You’re all on the edges of your seats, I’m sure.

also, i apparently equate winning dancing with the stars and passing health care reform. in my life, i'd really take either

I have now been unemployed for over a quarter of a year. That’s an entire season. My unemployment baby is now in his second trimester. It took Donny Osmond less time to win Dancing with the Stars. We actually got the House to approve the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act faster than it took me to get a job. Also, the next person who refers to it as “Obamacare” gets punched in the face. In the Netflix queue of words that make me want to vomit all over myself, Obamacare is somewhere in between Brangelina and FTW (pretty high up the list, in case it isn’t obvious).

So, in these three months, I have discovered what surely others have discovered—people have an endless supply of bad advice. I don’t mean bad as in advice that could have been fruitful but went the other way. You know, the “sure, yeah, invest in that stock” or “I am pretty sure she said fifteen feet” or “I think his name is Martin” kind of advice. Nor am I talking about the kind of advice that was, I’m sure, helpful back in 1955 or whenever this person is drawing knowledge from. Like my grandmother, who suggested instead of buying I desk, I make one out of orange crates. Which is great advice for the Okies making it across the country from the Dust Bowl, I’m sure. But seeing as I question the quality and safety of the actual oranges from most stores, I doubt that a crate is anywhere to be seen. Not to mention the scene of me stacking together these crates sounds like beginning of the story of how I managed to nail my foot into my hardwood floor.

I am talking about the sort of bad advice that is just never good. It didn’t spoil over the fifty years that have passed since it was opened. It was just always useless. And not only is it never good, it is not even advice. I’m talking about one specific thing: the “oh, I wish I had that kind of free time! You must be getting all kinds of things done.” Thus is born something I have deemed the unemployment curse.

Now, the worst parts of unemployment are obvious—no money, no health insurance, not much reason to leave the house daily, job hunting is actually crushing my soul, and every time you write a cover letter, an angel loses its wings. But people seem to think that is a great opportunity to find yourself and to do something you’ve always wanted to do. I think these are the same kind of people who bet they would get tons of reading done in prison. So, they believe, instead of focusing on negative, take a good look at the positive!

I think the problem really is that people have this expectation that the only thing stopping them from writing a novel or selling all their worldly possessions and backpacking in the Andes or finally learning how to play tennis is the fact that they spend the day in the office. Remove that, and dreams can come true. What I think people fail to remember is that you don’t leave the layoff meeting thinking, yes, I am ready (to plagiarize) to cease to be earthbound and burden by practicality. What you are thinking is, wow, if I don’t find a job very soon, I won’t be able to pay rent after next month. What a great time to start making hemp necklaces and selling them on Etsy.com!

So, while you spend your day changing the recipient’s address on your cover letter and trying not to use too much shampoo, you are also laden with the guilt that you should be reading more, visiting more museums, taking more walks, doing the sort of things that everyone should be doing. But instead of the typical excuse that work takes up too much of your time and energy, you have “nothing stopping you.” So why wouldn’t you finally tackle classic Russian novels or clean out that closet you’ve been meaning to clean? Think of it as your very own stay-cation (also on the vom-word queue)!

The curse is exactly that feeling that you are somehow wasting this horrible experience, that somehow when you finally do get a job again, you will look back at these few months and rue not having better used your time. Which is just mean. Why would you do that? You, that person who is down, let me kick you! Not only are you feeling rejected and useless and sad, you should also feel lazy and uninspired! Forget that you have trouble finding a reason to get up in the AM and put on clean clothes, you really should be trying to visit as many cultural institutions as possible. You’ll regret it if you don’t! People think that they are being helpful, but really, they are just being mean.

There are positive, optimistic people who see life in a way that is both joyful and enlightened. And then there are just stupid people who fail to see things as they really are. They are the sort of people who think that a smile and a dream can get them through anything, while at the same time they are unaware of their own pathetic tendencies. You know, the person who thinks that falling down all the time makes them endearing, not difficult to be around. These are the kind of people who cheerfully serve up what they feel is positive, optimistic advice that is actually terrible not-advice, specifically because they are stupid.

I am getting a lot of reading done, though.