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…and it was strange because I finally had a skill set that I could sell to the interviewer, a benefit list I needed met, and a salary that I want matched. And I got everything, and made a good impression to boot. Now I just have to wait for them to clear it through HR. It’s much closer to work than where I am now. And their tuition reimbursement is four times as large as the one I get now. I am on the verge of temporary hapiness. Quick, someone make me miserable so I can feel normal…

We have a new group of people that manage the cafeteria at work. They make all sorts of yummy smelling food, but I can’t bring myself to buy anything that they’ve made. Why? Because they can’t spell. Every afternoon around three, I microwave a bag of popcorn to take back to my desk. As I wait for it to pop, I turn around to the cafeteria whiteboard and count the number of simple spelling errors that are there. Like: thousand islan dressin, potatoe (no kiddin’!), tomatos, stuff like that. I know I’m being a dick, but I want to go up to the board and wipe out all of the errors with my finger. I have to fight the urge, especially since the people are still there. I just can’t equate that people that can’t be bothered to spell right for professionalism’s sake can take simple precautions not to contaminate my food somehow. And then I think of fast food places…

When I was little, my parents were members of the Church of Christ in Orangevale, Ca. We lived close by, so it was convenient. Deanna, Mark, and myself were also students at the Christian Acadamy there during the week.

One Sunday after church, I was using the urinal in the bathroom. Absentmindedly, I noticed a patch of rust on a metal "separator" that protected the "urinator" from prying eyes. I wondered how the rust got there, and suddenly it clicked. It was rusty because people peed on it. So I did, and as I was, an old man walked in and caught me. I denied doing anything wrong, that it was somebody else that made the puddle on the floor. What was he going to do, test the urine? So I mocked like I was going to clean it up and left the bathroom.

I learned no valuable lesson that day, unless it was that if you’re going to pee on things that normally shouldn’t be peed on, make sure no one is around to bust you.

It is not a very good idea to wake up on a Saturday morning and decide to write a letter to someone you owe a letter to. It is not a very good idea to write this letter sloppily on Wonder Woman paper you want to get rid of so you can move on to your Bettie Page paper. It is not a good idea to write in a stream of conciousness manner all sorts of gobbeldy-gook you may or may not mean, and then get up, address an envelope, and mail the letter without reading in again. Now I can’t remember what I wrote, how sappy and sentimental it might be, and what’s worse, I can’t take it back, and may have a hard time explaining what I wrote. It seemed like a good idea at the time… just like when I asked out the girl who did the sonogram on my balls, checking for cancer. I mean, we did have a good conversation… how was I supposed to know it was just pillow talk, baby…

I was thinking about it today, and the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten from my mother was a tape dispenser and the kind of scotch brand tape that comes in the green box. here’s why: I use tape every week to tape the plastic bags I buy to protect my comic books. The tape with the green box is the best because it is only semi-sticky and will hold the plastic flap of the plastic bag in place, and yet is relatively easily removable from a comic book cover should it inadvertantly get stuck. Anyway, like I said before, I use it every week. Can any of us say that about any other gift we’ve gotten? Not many. The tape dispenser is heavy and has sand in the inside bottom to give it weight. It’s really professional, like you’d find in an office. My mother definitely didn’t crap out on that gift. I even used it today, to tape the paws of my cats’ feet. It’s so funny to watch them shake it like a polaroid picture…

…it’s almost 2006, the beginning of the slide towards the sequel to 2001, 2010, and the human race still doesn’t live in space. I have a few things to ask you Jeebus, things that I want to happen before planet X arrives, or the Mayan calendar ends on my birthday in 2012…

Anyway… can you hear me Jeebus? It’s me, Jason. Here’s what I want (in no particular order):

1) Please let me slip some inside information to the Wall Street Journal. I don’t really have to know anything, just let me be lucky and give the government another black eye. I know the neo-cons work for you and everything, but they’re such assholes about it…

2) Don’t let that South Korean dipshit ruin the stem cell research for the rest of us. He just wanted to be liked, when it comes right down to it, and even though his work has been shown to be a complete fabrication, even a broken clock is right twice a day, know what I mean, Jeebus?

3) Even though I didn’t support the war in Iraq, how about we keep it going for another year, simply because I haven’t had enough of the "support the troops" ribbons that people put on their car? They come in so many pretty colors. I even saw one that was shaped like a Christmas wreath, so that the driver could be a war mongerer and have the Christmas spirit. Don’t you just love your Jeebus friends, Jeebus?

4) Jeebus, even though I’m not gay, please let me keep my fabulous interior design instincts? Even though my new apartment will probably flood, burn, or explode sometime in 2006, and I’ll have to move AGAIN, at least the place will look more lovely as it burns in the night.

and finally…

5) Look, Jeebus, I’m not one to complain, but could we PLEASE just have one fuckin’ zombie infestation so I can shrug of this cold mantle of "office worker" and finally prove my manhood by fighting the undead with my friend Matt? I mean, why did you have someone write that survival guide, and then not have anyone use it? I mean, shit Jeebus, c’mon…

Amen. Have a great ‘06 everyone!

I wrote this whole long thing that I guess didn’t get blogged correctly, so I’ll make this one short. If any of you have ever trusted my judgement about movies, go see Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang. This is a movie that if you only see on DVD, you’ll kick yourself for not seeing it on the big screen. Monumental performances from everyone involved, and some beautiful cinematography. LA actually looks like a place I’d want to live. Go. See. Now.

Tonight I watched "the Biggest Loser" while eating a big, fat burrito from Chitople. And I had no guilt whatsoever. As a matter of fact, I had to chuckle. And then eat some chocolate pudding. Jeebus loves me.

I’m remembering Kilgore Trout today, and his appearance in Breakfast of Champions. Every bad action in that book was excused as "bad chemicals". Why does a normally sane person do insane things? "Bad chemicals". Ever since reading this explanation, it feels like the world has been lifted off my shoulders. "Bad chemicals" is the most compassionate reasoning for strange behavior that I’ve ever read. It doesn’t let anybody off the hook for bad or illegal behavior, but I know that there are thousands of people out there who sit in the dark, alone, and wonder "why am I like this? What in my life has brought me to this, sitting alone and fantasizing about doing myself in?" There’s a lot of guilt in today’s society about not fitting in, not being constantly cheery and "up with people". Wouldn’t it be nice if Kilgore Trout could find all these people and like some mad apparition, firmly clutch their shoulders and say " It’s not your fault. It’s bad chemicals". What a fuckin’ relief…

I don’t think I ever give as much love to my friends as I should, so I’m going to start with Tate Bloom. I’ve known Tate since high school. For most of that time I’ve looked up to him as a naturally good guy that liked to have a good time. He taught me how to drive. He always had a good laugh at the crazy shit that my mother would pull (like the Vietnam vet who was going to be checking out his pot crop on the exact same weekend that our group of friends would go camping). After high school, he was my connection to meeting all sorts of fascinating people that populated his world, and if I ever felt shy or out of sorts, he was always good to talk to. He cared about my not smoking without giving me a hard time about it. One of my favorite memories is when he and I were the "dancing buildings" at the end of 42nd st. the musical. We’d have these big plywood facades of the city skyline, and we’d tap dance out onto the stage and shake those damn things for all they were worth, and still fuck up the steps (hence the last row). He also was the first guy I knew that liked Van Halen and Pink Floyd. Since I got into both of those bands after that first taste, I have Tate to thank in part for my taste in music. Most of all (and I’ll cut this short lest I make even more an embarrassment out of myself) Tate represented an alternative to the super religious life I loathed at home. Rooted in science, a thinking man with artistic intent, Tate was the most even-tempered kid I knew in school, and I wanted to be just like him. Thanks Tate. Even though we don’t see each other often, I always think about you fondly.