The Long Weekend, Part 1.

Friday, May 30th
Sunlight.

It never fails: even when I set the alarm clock to wake me an hour later than usual, my body wakes up at 7am. Sure, I had grand plans to rise before the dawn and get to the gym early, but we all knew that wasn't gonna happen. Still, sleeping in for an hour doesn't seem like so much to ask of the universe. I try my best for a half an hour to at least keep my eyes shut and pretend to sleep. I excel at losing this battle. Grumpy and hungry and still plenty tired from the night before, I crawl to the edge of my bed, where I sit silently for what seems like forever. The clock blinks at me: 7:45am. The dilemma becomes thus: to shower or not to shower. The cable guy is scheduled to arrive at sometime between 8am and 12pm. I decided to greet him stinky. I’ve got some things to do and I’m just going to get dusty and dirty up myself anyways. This is what I argue back when the voice inside my head calls me a “lazy ass” over the sound of my toothbrush. Which reminds me – it’s time to take my Prozac. (And clean my ear - I got my lobe piercings reopened and a cartilage done all on the left.)

I realize at just abou 8am that I've forgotten to drag the computer desk downstairs into the spot where I want the connection hooked up. More precisely, I was too damn tired to drag it all downstairs at 3am when I got home the night before, but the point remains the same: the desk needs to be in place and this guy could be here any minute now. It takes me less than half an hour to nearly kill myself while dragging the desk downstairs. Setting up the computer takes me less time than that - and induces no life threatning injuries. It's at this point that I realize it's nearly 9am and I've done everything I can. Cleaning would require moving too many things around and showering would require going upstairs. Thankfully, the TV is in place and so is the GameCube.

16 rounds of X-Men: Legends II (Gimme a break I'd just seen a midnight showing of the latest movie with three hot guys!) later, Mr. Cable/Internet/Phone man still wasn't there. Seeing as FB and the Princess would be ready for San Francisco shortly after 1pm, the time to shower had come. I leave the cell phone where I can hear it ring and make a quick bathroom run. Inevitably, I miss FB's call that he parked in the garage downstairs and forgot he didn't have keys to get in the security doors. As I make my way out front and see my dearest friend turning the corner, the cable guy shows. The time is now 12:30p.

"Hey, I realize you don't have a security key yet, but why didn't you punch in the code? You do have a key to the actual apartment." I can't resist.

He looks at me with narrowed eyes, knowing I'm right but not believing I just said it, "I panicked."

I change the subject. "The cable guy's here at least."

"Fucker's late. And you have a lot of earrings in your ear," says he with a disapproving tone. He can't resist, either. This roommate thing is either gonna be a blast, a bloodbath, or a blast of a bloodbath.

Two hours later, my clothes are out of the dryer and packed and the fella is almost done installing the phone. Great - my first day with cable and internet again and I don't even get time to enjoy it. I can't help but feel this is my fault for scheduling the appointment on a day I needed to get somewhere - somewhere far. So shoot me - I already had the day of and I'm taking two more for the family trip to Vegas on my birthday. But back on point...as soon as the slowpoke (a very nice slowpoke, but a slowpoke nonetheless) is done, we call the Princess and make our way to her little castle. A quick trip to the gorcery store rounds up our L.A. need and we're off. So long cable. So long internet. So long DVR - I think I'll miss you most of all.

Part Deux to come in the mid-morning...

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Life, Liberty & the Pursuit of Broadband Committee.

Currently hanging in my kitchen...

I got it for less than ten bucks and it relates to my little corner of the blogosphere...

The place is still a mess - but the fridge and TV are in place. Internet, cable, and new phone service will be connected Friday morning. In the meantime, I can play video games and play DVDs to pass the time. (Thank God - all the reading last week was making my brain hurt!)

I'm sneaking time at work to prep a few posts for next week, when full time blogging will resume. On the slate for then:

• Rockin' a five-year old's birthday party 'til dawn!
• San Francisco!
• More racist food products!
• A Pop-locking monkey dance troupe.

Yes, nonsensical (but hilarious) blogging waters are ahead. You've been warned...

I might be able to check before the week is out. If not, just imagine the breakdancing primates and know that it will be as good as it promises to be.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Holding Pattern Committee.

The Underwear Stage.

Still no modern conveniences on at home. I've got calls in to the cable/internet/phone people, so hopefully by this weekend or early next week. So I'm posting a shorty (pun intended - keep readin', you'll see) just to keep my cred and my sanity intact.

One of the habits of my old roommate was to walk around the place (downstairs and upstairs) in her bra and undies. This never bothered me in the slightest. On the contrary - that she felt OK strolling down in the middle of Buffy wearing nothing but a bathrobe was actually a sign to me that we were doing all right. Still, the feeling was never reciprocal. I hate wearing sweatpants or flip-flops in outside of my own bedroom. I'll go barefoot or in socks, but I'm a freak about being in clothing while other people are around.

Flash forward to this weekend. The old roomie and her boy moved all of her stuff into their new place, leaving me an open bedroom to move into and a downstairs that looks like something out of Warsaw circa 1943. FB was over and we marvelled at how little we do without television or the internet. A few hours into Sunday evening and my best friend/new roommate sauntered down the stairs in nothing but his skivvies and a tank top. I thought nothing of it - I mean we have seen each other naked in the past. It wasn't until later in the evening (while I was reading comic books and Fb was perusing W magazine) I was in nothing but my skivvies and a tank. In the living room!

And so it's offcial I've crossed the threshold: we've reached the underwear stage.

(No pictures are forthcoming, just to be clear.)

J.

Sponsored by the A Day Late, A Boxer Short Committee.

I ain't Happy, that's for sure.

First off: anyone need a Madonna ticket or two? I've got two singles for opening night at the Forum that are barely above face value (seriously, factor in Ticketmaster's charges and I might make $10 bucks on my ticket...) And just for the curious, the reason I'm not going is because the Princess and I got tickets to a different night that actually have us sitting together. Alright, alright - my job as a salesman is officially over. Seriously, though, tell a friend - I don't want to haveta venture down to Inglewood and be arrested for scalping. Solictation on Santa Monica Blvd. is a much less embarassing offense, after all.

OK, onto business...literally. I'm going to do the oh-so-rare Bitch-About-Work-Blog tonight. Naive fucker that I can be sometimes, I really thought that the end of my former manager's reign would bring about some sort of Utopia in my department. But in the absence of our despotic Alpha dog, the rest of the pack seems to be scrambling. Oh, nevermind that we've already got a new manager who's got some great ideas about how to improve the way we do things. What some folks seem to be really concerned about is how much they can get away with during the transition, i.e. making long personal calls every time management isn't around or passing off work because you're "too busy" and then taking an hour and a half lunch to rub it in. Thing is, I know better than to get on management's bad side this early in the game. After all, previous management got on my bad side even earlier than this just last year, and she's been canned - need I say more? This worker bee is buzzing away loudly in his corner of the hive until told otherwise.

I've long contended that in the workplace, assets become weaknesses in the blink of an eye. In fact, before the recent coup, I told my manager straight out the following: "Competency has become a liability around here. To be dependable, intelligent, and willing these days is to be abused and exploited while other folks get away with flying under the radar, doing nothing but make more work for people like me." (How Norma Rae of me. And I wonder why she hated me so...) Still, there's no way around it -the bulk of departmental CYA work tends to fall on me - the only man-boy in my area, the mouthy kid with "distracting" blond hair (funny story - I'll blog it another time), the punk who has been with the company less than three years and out of of high school less than most of my co-workers have been with the company. Maybe I give off an air of confidence and intelligence (at least I hope that's it - I have been eating a lot of broccoli lately...) Maybe it's my "can-do"attitude. (Doubtful, as I'm more apt of make a sarcastic, though hilarious barb than to encourage a co-worker under stress...). Or maybe I have "SUCKER" written on my forehead because of that damn Catholic guilt my currently agnostic ass still can't seem to shake completely. (Bingo!)

Bottom line: I know I'm capable of doing my job and doing it well. By no means, do I think I'm smarter than everyone else. I just think I work harder than a lot of folks. Why? The cynic in me says it's because I haven't had the wind knocked out of my optimism. The optimist in me says. "What the hell are you talking about? You've never been optimistic. Shut up and be cynical about it already." The little boy who pushes all the button and feeds the hamster on the wheel in my head says, "Voices in J.'s head are fun."

On the plus side, my new manager is looking at having my labor grade updated because I act like a senior employee so I should be titled and paid like one. Nothing like a little cha-ching carrot dangling to make the day end on a sweeter note.

Still, I was stressed out enough by the end of today that I actually ditched out on plans to hit an *open* (that's right, free) bar because I knew I needed to sweat the stress out more than I needed to drink it away. I'll gladly pay for drinks another night. Tonight, I was tearing muscle and imagining the sands of Bora Bora. Also, I was watching San Antonio get trounced by Miami in the playoffs. I'll always vote for the guy with Superman tattoos over a wife beater.

See ya Thursday!
-J.

This post was sponsored by the Which Dwarf Am I? Committee

Conversation

Last night:

Roommate's Boyfriend: "My dreams are coming true - Mission Impossible III came in below expectations at the box office."

Me: "I know - it's awesome."

RB: "But it still made like $70 million worldwide! Jeez."

Me: "Yes, except in Germany, where his movies never do well. And you can't ever compeltely discount international appeal. It's like Michael Jackson."

RB: "So you're saying Tom Cruise could molest a bunch of young boys and get away with it?"

Me: "Probably."

I am gonna miss having nightly banter with that guy. Lucky for me, he'll be just a few doors down so I can harass him at least a couple of times a week.

Corporate racism in the food industry isn't anything new. Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima (confusingly, not ever pitched to the public as a couple) are among the most notable examples. As a child, I thought Mrs. Butterworth was a dark-skinned English woman - though it appears she's just brown on the inside. Famous Amos was a real guy, but the Keebler Elves have since bought him out and to quote my favorite new girl at work, "He's probably drunk, living it up on the sands of Barbados now." I imagine he and Billy Ocean are doing the limbo with that guy who played Bernie.

While refilling my Sprite at the local Corner Bakery, something caught my eye (see photographic evidence on the left). I know - if you look at it now, it clearly says "China Mist." But if you're filling your drink, checking out a fellow patron and glancing at the tea dispenser, the "A" in the word becomes a "K" and the context of the wacky and stereotypical "Asian" font changes completely.

Then this weekend, I faced down a package of Nips in, of all places, my dear friend Armi's place. (Lily, by the way, is adorable and full of Sunday evening energy well past her bedtime.) I snapped a spycam pic for evidence and moved on.

Later in the evening, while grocery shopping, I found more evidence:

First off, what makes a particular cheddar bold? Is it extra-strength, mold resistant cheddar? Does it lean in to kiss you on the first date? Does it dare to wear white socks with dark dress pants?
Also, I don't know that the two Nips products are related and if so, which is the chicken or the egg, but the plot definitely thickened in Aisle 3, where I found that our Asian brethren weren't the only victims:

The people at Nabisco even went so far as to assume the type of meals white people like. Seriously, if you're trying to peddle you're food-like product, placing it next to the economy-sized baking soda isn't exactly the most appetizing way to sell it.

Anyway, the list goes on and on - Rosarita, Florence Henderson, George Foreman, Wendy, Colonel Sanders, even Ling Ling the Panda Express panda - pawns, all of them. I don't think it's any one race the food industry's trying to incite hate against. I think it's a full-blown race war they're looking' for. Why, you ask? Because when riots break out and curfews are instituted, people will need to start hoarding food. And we won't be able to eat healthy, with our perishables. We'll need our stereotypical staples to keep us thriving.

It all makes me wonder if "Sprite" isn't a crack at little people. Maybe I should call those elves and see what they think...

In other news, I'm being really strict with my eating lately (restricting sugars and cutting almost all dairy) in an effort to detox. I'm chowing mostly on carrots, broccoli, oranges, and apples. Frankly, I think the lack of junk food is making me loopy. Sad, as it's only been a day.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Starvation Nation Committee.

To tide y'all over while I'm at the gym, slacking from tonight's main blogging plans...


These photos are to serve as proof that, despite my protestations, we had a good time at the failed charity outing on Saturday. To the right: J. & A. make funny for the phonecam. At left: FB strikes a sexy pose, as usual.

Next time, I'll write a check.

Sometimes charity shouldn't just begin at home. Very often it should stay there - right in that soft, warm bed that nobody should be forced to leave on a Saturday except to pee and eat (separately, of course).

As hard as I true to suppress my altruism, it takes over at weirdest times. And as hard as I try to suppress my inner cynic at said times, it never works. Take this weekend, for example. My company sponsored a volunteer event, in association with United We Paint. A good sized number of my co-workers and I showed up with assorted friends and family (yes, FB came along) at roughly 8 in the morning. The problems began immediately:

In the email we'd received from our public relations specialist, a continental breakfast was offered. I've stayed at Best Westerns before, so I wasn't expecting an omelette, but basics (a coffee pot? fresh baked goods? a table to put the foodstuffs on?) didn't seem too much to ask. Apparently my standards were too high. All we had were some boxed donuts (and I like Entemann's as much as the next guy, but...) and bottled water and sodas. The latter were not cold because our illustrious PR Chica neglected to get ice. She ended up asking the elderly couple whose house we painted for ice. And then proceeded to use their fridge to cool down some of the drinks faster.


I woofed a chocolate donut or two and grabbed a lukewarm Coke, naively thinking the worst was over. Poor A. - who was nice enough to carpool us there - seemed too depressed to sample the pathetic spread.


The day only got better from there. Apparently, PRC didn't realize you actually need supplies to paint a house. So off went our Vice President of marketing (aka PRCs boss) to Home Depot to pick up odds and ends like, oh paint, brushes, rollers, etc. During the course of the day we managed to kill several bushes, scrape a little too much plaster, and plug up one of the bathrooms. Where were our fixed-income hosts? The far-too trusting couple had left us with their home while they attended a wedding.

A funny thing happens when events like this go haywire: people stop working. Then they slowly and quietly disappear completely. I wasn't too surprised that folks bailed a little early, but when I realized our fearless leader, the inept PR chick was among the first to go, my antennae perked. Apparently she left before the pizza arrived for lunch, not thinking that she would have to use her corporate to pay for said food. Apparently, she had a birthday party to throw for her daughter. And in PR, it's always a good idea to doublebook - especially when the CEO brought his family, as did most of sernior management.

During the course of the day, the lone professional (yes, there was only one on hand) came out to A. within earshot of FB and myself. That was about as exciting as it gets. The house looked better after we "finished" (we never even put on a second coat), but I can't say I felt like it was much of a charity effort. Yes, the man served in WWII and has had an account with us since before Moses was floating down the river. Yes, they were too frail to paint the house themselves. But upon finding out that they have 8 kids, 29 grandkids, and a dozen or so more great-grandkids, I couldn't help but wonder if the family couldn't have a pitched in.

Oh! Silly me. They had a wedding to go to and there were birthdays to be celebrated.

See? My cynical side never fails me.

Night kids.

J.

This post was sponsored by the Water Based Skepticism Committee.

A Monday Without This Mexican.

First off: No, I did not take yesterday off as a political statement. Lack of blogging was the result of just plain ol' laziness. [Insert your own Mexican siesta joke here.] Stupidly, FB and I tried to get Mexican food for lunch. After striking out with authentic food, we discovered even El Pollo Loco had been hit - "Drive Thru Only" said the sign on the door. We settled for Jack-In-The-Box, where it appeared either nobody was down with the cause or had been threatened by management. In any event, my story ends with me woofing down a double cheeseburger in the shade of the park by my work and apartment. I don't think they would have wanted this mug on camera in protest, anyway:

Either I would have been reported as a sympathetic outsider or attacked as a whitewashed bandwagon-jumper. Been there, done that. Not that either accusation is completely off base, mind you. And for the record, I think there's valid arguments on both sides to be heard and I don't think many people are discussing them in an open forum. If this brings that about, great. If not, it's just a day's worth of revenue down the drain. There - my political rant for the year is done. Check!

...and since we're on the subject of Jay V.2006 (aka Blonde on Blonder - I touched up and lightened some more on Sunday night), I have a question to pose: does this face look like one you would ask for directions? I've always contended that the lighter my hair gets, the more trustworthy I'm perceived as being. If I were driving (I know, I know - stay with me for the hypothetical here...), some guy walking/waiting for public transport wouldn't be the first person I would ask for directions. All three lost souls who asked for help tonight were in luck, since I do know my way around Burbank. But I almost never get these kind of requests. And the first time I went blonde, I noticed a similar spike in my apparent approachability. Since I was small, I've known that being able to "pass" was a commodity. I've always been a little jealous of those who couldn't - with their Aztec features and/or dark skin. But I'm also jealous of anyone 5'10" or above and of people with quicker metabolisms than I. Truthfully, I lack some grand social statement to make about this, but it's one more thing to make us go "Hmm..." in a time when we're grappling with issues that are slightly related.

Has anyone here read the last 'Mojo review? It's a little short, I know, but it had been a while since I screened the film, so I had to keep it concise. I'll be more thorough with future pieces - I may even get an invite to some premiere-type thingy in June. Look out, Roger Ebert!

Well, that's my brain for the evening. Get some sleep already! Tomorrow I'll regale with the story of how I spent my Saturday painting some old dude's house.

-J.

This post was sponsored by the Yo Quiero Lowlights Committee.