Totally Automatic

Hey people.

Not much time to post today. I thought I should just tell ya'll that I'm alive and well, just busy as a beaver, assuming that beavers are busy.

I haven't worked on the new blog yet. I'm waiting for my course to end so I can get in some breathing time. In the meantime, listen to Automatic by Ultra Nate. It reminds me of my first time at a gay club back when I was a wee li'l homo. Ah, the days.

Memorieeeees...

Come on, everyone! Sing with me!

...anyway, real post to come in a couple days.

Jam

Take A Look Overhead

I feel like a zombie today.

I wanted to finish this huge essay last night, but instead, I like stared into space until 2am. So now, since it's due Thursday, I have to write it all today after work. I'm sure I'll have a nap when I come home, so tonight will probably wind up being awfully long. The essay will wind up being awfully awful. Blah.

Haha, and now I'm going to go to work while asleep with my eyes open! Hurray!

And, as a last minute tidbit of information, I just received an email from "admin@viagra.com".

Finally.

--Jam

Does Whatever a Weasel Can

I'm in a teeny-tiny study room on the 4th floor of the library. I have an essay due Thursday (that I haven't really started), so I figured I should get some sort of jump on that.

A while back, I mentioned Weasel Man, a short, strange man who works at the library. He added to my stress on the day of the photocopier/printer madness by really not helping whatsoever. Today, I encountered him. Here is our conversation:

WM: HI THERE!
Jam: Uh, hi. I'd like to-
WM: How are you today?
Jam: I'm fine. How-
WM: Good.
Jam: Good. I'd-
WM: I love your pants!
Pause.
I've been going on about manpris (capris for men) for the longest time, and I finally broke down and bought them when they were on sale. They are fabulous pants, but frankly, a creepy 50-something Weasel Man should not be commenting on random men's pantaloons.
Unpause.
Jam: Well, thanks.
WM: *gigantic-and-extremely-creepy smile*
Jam: They're called manpris.
Pause.
I have no idea why at this moment I didn't just ask for the study room. I think part of me felt bad for the creepy li'l guy. The other part was eaten away by the creepy smile of doom.
Unpause.
WM: Manpris, eh? Hmm!
Jam: Ya. I'd like a study room please. *holds out student card*
WM: Okee dokee! *takes card* Alright, Jim.
Pause.
My card says "James". Did I say at any time that anyone could call me Jim? No? Didn't think so.
Unpause.
WM: That'll be room four. Oh. One, big fella.
Superpause.
WHAT? Big fella? Are you kidding me? Did I actually just here that come out of someone's mouth that isn't my great aunt Marion pinching the cheeks of some unfortunate baby? I mean, come on, that's ultra-disturbing. Was he making fun of how little I am? Well that can't be, because I'm bigger than him, so maybe he was making light of the fact that... anyway, it doesn't matter.

I'm thoroughly creeped out and have to go back down there to get my card when I'm done. Terrific. "Hey, little fella, stop gnawing on the books and give me my card."

--Jam

Short Self, Walk Tall

I'm coming to the realization that I have a lot more balls than I thought. Not in the literal sense (that would be a strange realization, now wouldn't it?), but more in the sense that I am the harsh, loud person amongst the backdrop of most people.

For example, I was on the bus to work last week. 8.30am as always, same bus driver that I have every day, same route, same bushes, same everything. This time, there was construction immediately before my stop. Even though I had pulled the little ding string, even though I get off at this stop in front of the bank every day dressed as a banker, the driver forgets about the ding and the everyday stop and drives quickly past. I guess the construction was just too much change. Instead of walking up to the driver and asking politely to stop, or waiting until he realizes that he's made the mistake, my brain says "You'll have to walk all that way!" forcing my mouth to blurt out "Stop, please." The people in front of me jumped, and the bus driver apologized. I was very kind getting off, smiled, the whole nine yards, so it wouldn't have remained negative in his mind (I don't think). It was just that I looked the part of a business professional, and I commanded the stop of that bus. It might sound silly but it was a good thing, as Martha Stewart said pre-jail, and it felt good to be decisive enough to stop a bus simply with my voice. (That phrase makes me sound like a super-hero!)

Today, I was chatting with a co-worker after work and she was asking me where I'll be moving in the fall, to which I replied I was looking at a place on Livingstone. For those of you who are St. John's illiterate, Livingstone is very downtown, and is rougher that some streets, but not downtown Detroit or crackwhores or anything like that. She, in her best middle-aged, suburban mom voice says "Oh. Well I would never live on Livingstone. Why wouldn't you want to live within walking distance of the school?" Now, that's a great idea, but then I'd have to bus downtown to bars, cafes, any time I wanted to go downtown, so it's the same difference, only living downtown has a fun, young-but-hip feel to it, whereas near campus has a young-chugging-beer feel. The latter is definitely not as appealing. Long story short, she didn't understand in the least, saying "I wouldn't even walk in that area. Would you?" I replied, "Hunny," (yes I said hunny), "I'm from Ontario. Stuff downtown St. John's doesn't scare me in the least. I may be little (the same size as she is), but I walk tall." She just smiled, almost a grimace, and changed the subject. I think she was a little intimidated/doubtful, but I'm fine with that. It's not my problem if she's short and walks it. I walk tall. And I'm confident enough to say, aloud, something as lame as "I walk tall." Maybe I'm related to The Rock?

--Jam

Decision Time

I've taken two domain names, and I need your help in deciding which one to keep as my new blog.

For those of you who are slacking and didn't know about this previously, here's some information:

1. Jam's Blog will remain as my personal blog.
2. The new blog will be more rants, social commentaries, listings, ratings, etc.
3. There is no 3.

One more thing - don't go to those links because I have done absolutely nothing with the sites, except take them so that no one else does. Therefore, don't comment on here saying "there's nothing there! You're a phony!" and come after me with torches. None of that.

The two ideas are:

Fire and Ice Water
fireandicewater.blogspot.com, www.fireandicewater.com

As I will be having rants, as well as other, more positive posts, I could divide them into hot and cold posts, with hot and cold links, and a very bold design pattern, with dark reds, lighter blues. The logo would be fire and a glass of water with ice it, and I would have rotating phrases every week-or-so, saying things like "Stay Cool." or something more interesting.


Crimson Lime
crimsonlime.blogspot.com, www.crimsonlime.com

This site may allow for a better layout, with citrus colours, and many options for the logo, with the obvious being some sort of red lime. I can have sweet and sour links with some alterations of the logo (sweet, for example, having a pile of sugar on it). I would also have rotating phrases, like "Juicy." or something less lame.


This blog is going to be a big undertaking and I really want your opinion on this. It may end up that my readers here are my only readers over there, thus I want all the input from this crowd as I can get.

Comment now!

--Jam

McBastard

I went to McDonald's the other day. I don't go very often, because of the whole gut rot factor, but I was being lazy and did not feel like cooking whatsoever. I walk in to find about thirty people standing in a large mob in front of the counter.

Now, first of all, do these people think that is how this process works? Lines, people, lines. I think to myself, It's a nice day. I'm sure there's some sort of lines in this mob, and stand at the back of a large, smelly man. Eventually two lines become apparent, and I find myself in the middle of one of them, which makes me quite content. Maybe I'll get my grease-trap faster than I thought!, thought a-couple-days-ago Jam.

When I'm near the front of the line, an elderly man to my right drops a drink off his tray. It splashes everywhere (luckily not on me) and kind of just stands there, quite disappointed with the cup or the tray or himself or Stephen Harper. I bend down, pick up the cup, and walk over to a garbage to throw it out. I figured since I was right there I should do something. I get back to line and the girl behind me, a blonde-dye-job-gone-wrong teenage girl had moved up into my spot. I was helping the old man, I thought, and you saw me, you crazy bitch. I come up next to her, somewhat in front of her, and stand there. Why should she be able to take my spot? Because I was helping an old man who dropped his drink? Right, I scoffed...in my head.

Now, something to note is that although there are two lines, there are four registers, so each line is in the middle-ground of two registers. Just so you can picture my McWorld.

When it's finally my turn, the girl says, to the entire world, "Can I help who's next?" The girl bolts around me and orders before she has stopped walking. Her gigantic-cap-wearing buddy follows along, and I am simply flabbergasted. I decide to just keep my ground, I'm next, I think, and I stay at the start of the line rather than tripping that blonde tramp to the ground with a Louisville slugger, Carrie Underwood style.

Before I know it, this guy who is VERY far back in the line decides that the blonde tramp has created a new line, and also decides that he is next in this line. He walks up and just stands there, and when she's done, he gets to order, because the girl behind the counter is about five and says "Can I help who's next" while looking up or down or through us all.

Meanwhile, while this is happening and I'm so ecstatic that it is, the other register is being held up by two women with knotted hair who have ordered eight full cows, and two of the biggest Diet Cokes I have ever seen. Apparently the girl keeps missing things in the order, but because they keep paying every minute-or-so to add something on like fries or extra grease, I'd assume it was not the server's fault. She seemed to be at least seven - kids grow up so fast these days.

Finally, the rude back-of-the-line man finishes and breezy (as the breeze is blowing right through her skull) says "Can I help who's next?" Without thinking, I decide that I'm not going to get there, that some horrible McPerson is going to jump up and claw out my face to get their McFood. Instead, I look back and the gorgeous, 20-something polo-wearing man behind me says "go ahead" and smiles. "Thanks" and holy GOD have my babies!

I order my meal and get out of McDonald's in about twenty-five minutes. I'm not sure what attracts the world's most horrible citizens there during dinnertime, but all I know is I will not be going back. Unless I wear a polo...

--Jam

Up A Cat's Nose

Howdy troops.

My apartment is a disgusting mess. I know I've said this many times before, but this time, it is at its worst. I have clean and dirty laundry all over the place, dishes scattered about as though they are settling in for the long haul, and all of my stuff is just not where it's supposed to be. Why is my English textbook from last term sitting on my dining room table? Why haven't I moved it back? Why, oh Jebus, why?

The problem is I am never home. I'm always doing something, going somewhere, and don't have any time to just sit and clean and be. Right now, I'm technically working all three jobs, the bank one, the old dish one, and the new host one, as well as attempting to do well in that course. Just thinking about all that I have to do is making me tired. I think my brain has reached its capacity limit. You know how elevators say "no more than 1200lbs" (which seems like a hell of a lot for an elevator)? I think my brain has a capacity of "no more than three major dedications".

I'm back into house-hunting, scouring the city for possible magnificent houses. I'm going to see a couple today with my aunt, and if we like one and can get it for Sept. 1st, we're hopefully going to take it. The only problem is that my lovely new roommates are being so distant, it feels like they're living on Saturn. The one is being vague and the other I don't really know, but I sent out emails and everything, saying "do you have the down-payment?" or "down-payment would be pretty." That kind of thing. Haven't heard much back, so I'm hoping all is a go. If one of the two I see today is perfect and available, I'm going to call them and be like "yo, dawgs, time to snap to it," or something less strange. Or more. Probably more.

I'm waiting for the realtor to call me back. What is it about realtors and people like realtors not calling back right away? They probably all sit around for twenty minutes before the call you, just to get you anxious for your call. "I'll show that realtor! I'll get so in his face that I'll buy whatever he throws at me. That'll show him."

Realtor isn't a word if it's not capitalized? "Doctor" isn't capitalized, "lawyer" isn't capitalized. Why do realtors get a capital R? Are they pirates? Arrr. Hah, oh lord I'm funny. But seriously, what the hell.

Oh, the title. I found this amazing site, mandolux.com, that has amazing desktop wallpapers. I got a bunch, including a gorgeous up-close Starbucks cup *drool*, and a kitty's face all zoomed in. So, yeah, up a cat's nose.

--Jam

PS: There is no number five, you goobers. It was supposed to be, like, "And.. Jam." Sheesh. Get with it.

Felicitations

A bunch of job stories/facts/thingies:

1. Congratulations to Julia and getting to quit Wal-Mart to work at Chapters! (And congrats to me for getting FIFTY PERCENT OFF at Starbucks when I'm with her! Good gravy.)

2. Congratulations to me, who got a new job at a bigger, more expensive restaurant; not as a dishwasher, either! I am now a busser/host. Workin' my way up the corporate restaurant ladder.

3. ALSO, that means I get to stop being a dishwasher! Hooray!

4. Congratulations to the other dishwasher at my current restaurant. Standing outside the restaurant (as I noticed because I had just walked by him), he calls inside to say he is not coming in tonight. I stop back in, as I missed my bus, and they tell me he quit, and ask me to work. Obviously I say no; I had just finished a four hour shift, and a six hour shift the night before. Unfortunately, it's not my problem, as much as I enjoy the people I work with.

5. And...

--Jam

Blah!

Either I am getting more irritable in my old age, or people are just overly rude and I'm just now starting to realize it, because today I wanted to strangle two separate individuals.

The first was a teenage girl on the bus. On my way to and from Starbucks, I always read, as the bus ride is an "efficient" thirty minutes. I enjoy reading to tune out all the crazies on the bus, especially since I don't have an MP3 player (yes, yes, I'm the only person alive, I'm aware.). Teenagers are difficult to tune out but normally whatever novel I'm reading can do the trick. This girl, however, I could not.

She was with two of her male counterparts, being loud and boisterous as obnoxious teens can be. The problem was that this girl was not only loud, but she was one of those people who over-exaggerates and lies through her teeth just to be overly interesting and falsely knowledgeable. For example:

Boy #1: Man, I wish I could get a job.
Girl: I've already had like five jobs.
Boy #2: No you haven't! You need a fucking bank account to have a job!
Girl: I've been using a bank account since I was, like, two.
Boy #1: Well then I'll get a bank account and get a fucking job.
* * *
Girl: I wish I could get my money out of my bank account. I can't though because you need to have three dollars in order to make a withdrawal.
Boy #1: Fuck that shit! It's your money!
Girl: I know. I'll just get my uncle to get it for me. He's a branch owner in *anonymous Newfoundland town*.

I seriously twitched while recounting this girl. She just kept lying! Banks don't have owners, and they certainly do not have three-dollar-rules. Also, if she is as young as I know she is and has had five jobs, she should have more than less-than-three dollars in her bank account.

The second person was this young-ish (probably 18 years old) girl who was waiting for the bus as I got off to walk home. She was smoking and standing right next to the bus door, which I thought was so rude, obviously, because all the people who have to get on the bus have to breathe in her smelly smoke-air. She was pacing around, so as I approached her, I had to walk around her. She then exhaled a big cloud of gross, like, at me. It wasn't on purpose, but she knew it was going to happen because the wind was blowing in my face, and she was upwind. So, involuntarily, I went "BLAH!" really loudly and made this absolutely disgusted face in her direction. She looked shocked that I had a reaction at all, as she probably does this to the crazies and they breathe it in because they're always asking those waiting for the bus for "a smoke" about five times a minute. But me, not me. I will blah at you again, you silly jerkgirl. Don't make me.

--Jam

PS: On a side note, I didn't forget Gen, or anyone else for that matter, in my song-attachment thing in my last blog. I don't have songs for everyone, because if I did, that would just be crazy. I'm not that crazy.

No Show, All Tell

Hello, you beautiful audiencios, you!

Yes, I did just make up the word audiencio, made it plural, and you get to be one of them!

Today, I'm going to share a bunch of random facts about myself. I'm doing this to make sure that all of you know who I am, if you don't already, which you should since I know all of you... and also, because I have nothing whatsoever to write about because my life is boring. Hurray!

My middle name is Michael. I am the 4th generation to have that middle name on my father's side. Neat, huh?

I love cats and despise dogs. The dog upstairs, for example, will not stop barking at trees and bugs and cars and people and clouds and air and anything else that happens to move or crinkle or walk or not walk or stay perfectly still at any point in time. Therefore, at 3am or 6pm or anywhere in between, I hear "BROOO!" because it's one of those spaniels with the weird oo-barks. I especially (now) hate Oo-barks.

I hate crocs. The rubber shoes with the holes, not the big, scary, prehistoric lizards. They're kinda neat, in an I'm-going-to-eat-you way.

I think if I had pursued it earlier, I could have had a career in music. Not singing, but producing, mixing, and performing instrumentally.

I am extremely overconfident, and think I can do almost anything.

I could eat only feta cheese, black pepper Triscuits, cinnamon-raisin bagels with margarine, and drink milk and ginger-ale and white wine (all separately of course) for the rest of my life and be completely satisfied.

One of the most comforting experiences, if it counts as an experience and not a "thing", to me is a man's warm breath on the back of my neck at night.

I have a fascination with Rihanna. I think she is strange looking, but there is something inside me that loves her music, and wants her to be loved, and wants her to succeed even more.

I think Shakespeare was forgetful. His works are renowned for being able to be interpreted many different ways because of the parts he left open, but I don't believe he did it on purpose. I think he forgot, or was not smart enough to fill in the blanks.

I don't normally care if people agree with me. The opinions that matter most are those that stand out.

I find it fascinating that people fade in and out of my, and everyone's, life. As sad as it can be, I think it is necessary, and to an extent, I enjoy it.

Based on the above statement, I loathe Facebook. I think there are certain people I, and you, are supposed to lose touch with. Facebook is unnatural.

I unwillingly associate songs with people. Here are some examples:
Liz: Dancing 'Til the Stars Go Blue - Tim McGraw
Lindsay: If You're Not The One - Daniel Bedingfield
Athena: Under Pressure - Bowie & Mercury
Heidi: Psychobabble - Frou Frou
Julia: Faster Kill Pussycat - Paul Oakenfold ft. Brittany Murphy
Michael: Umbrella - Rihanna
MPhil: Desert Rose - Sting
Natalie: Me & You - Cassie
Jo & Chantelle: Sex & Money - Paul Oakenfold
Steph: Wherever You Are - Laava

I love talking about my friends. They make me who I am, they help me through anything and everything. Friends are the family I got to choose.

I have far more female friends than male friends.

I find my toaster to be sexy. It's dark blue and is sleek, stylish, and totally hot.

On that note, I'll finish.

--Jam, the sexy toaster man

The Hurting Unit

Mornin' peeps!

I'm sitting in my friend Jason's room after a very fun night of boozing and belching and everything else that starts with B. Well, except barfing. None of that, thank Jebus.

Yesterday was Canada Day, as I am sure you all know, and to celebrate, Rex Goudie was going to play on George Street. Rex Goudie. If you have been paying attention at all, you will know I have the largest crush imaginable on Rex. I voted for him every week on Canadian Idol, I dream about him (when I'm not making up other men, apparently), and I fantacize about him. When I heard he was playing, I got retardedly excited. Think a squirrel who just found a huge acorn who is having a seizure. Ya.

Instead of booking the night off work like a normal person, I risked it and had to work all day until close. Bummer extravaganza. All day and night, I talked to my co-workers about Rex, how much I love Rex, what I would do to Rex if I had him alone, what pieces of clothing I plan to throw to Rex. My straight male chef didn't understand why I loved him so much. We had this conversation:

Jam: What woman do you find most attractive in the entire world?
Chef: Pamela Anderson.
Jam: Werd. Pamela Anderson is to Chef as Rex Goudie is to me.
Chef: Werd.

So he got it. I don't think we actually said werd, but it made it so much more fun using it in that description, didn't it?

I closed as quickly as I possibly could and got to leave fifteen minutes early. I ran down to George Street and could hear him singing. My heart basically stopped and started eighty times as I walked down. Then, I heard him say this:

"Thank you very much! Happy Canada Day!"

And the music stopped altogether. I missed it. I didn't see him. I didn't touch him inappropriately. I didn't drool all over the people around me. I didn't.

My friends met up with me. A very disgruntled me drank a ridiculous amount of alcohol, danced around at about three clubs, and got felt up by a friend's boyfriend. Classy times all around.

I'll catch Rex next time he's in town. We'll do lunch. And dinner. And breakfast. Hah - I'll have good dreams tonight!

--Jam

The Guy I Made Up

I'm in a group of people, lots of my friends, and I meet the eye of this cute little Spanish-looking guy that hangs around with the same friends. I've had a thing for him for months, but I can tell he's not interested. I drink some more, socialize, and continue to spot him out of the corner of my eye. I swear he's looking at me, staring me down, so I turn my head to see yes, he is.

I step outside to get some air and he follows, sits beside me on the cold step of the mysterious party-house. He sits very close, close enough that my leg is touching him. I say something clever like "nice night," and he replies, equally as cleverly, "yeah." I look over at him, as coyly as my demeanor will allow, to be shocked as he kisses me. We stay locked for what seems like an hour. We part, I smile, not knowing what to say. Finally, I blurt out "I've been waiting for that for a while." He smirks and says "so have I."

We spend the coming weeks and months together. Going places, having fun, being there for one another. A feeling inside me, a warmth, grows like a tense blossom. I'm thrilled that this has happened and I never want it to stop.

Then I woke up.

I try to get back to sleep to find him in my sleepy daze, but all I can catch is his visage, smiling, in my mind. I've never seen the face in real life, except the reality of my dreams.

--Jam