Christmas has gotten totally f***ed up. We’re so worried about not offending anybody that we’ve gutted the season. It isn’t anything anymore. There was a commercial this year for Dell computers, the premise of which was that a kid was videotaping his wish list for his parents. He says, “Mom? Dad? This year, all I want for the holidays is a computer.” Hold it right there. “All I want for the holidays”?! What the f*** is that?! No kid anywhere in this country has ever said to anyone, ever, “this is what I want for The Holidays.” Kids don’t celebrate The Holidays. They celebrate a holiday. A holiday with a name. Anything else is completely hypocritical. If the angle you’re working is to make consumers think Dell computers would make a good Christmas gift, say the word Christmas, you spineless imbeciles. If the kid said they’d make a good Hanukkah gift, would my eyes fall out? Would my skin burn off? Would Gentiles stop buying computers? Grow a pair of balls or don’t try to sell me that way. Last month, I was in a K-Mart when I saw some Bibles over in the book rack. My first instinctive thought was, “My God! They can’t sell those here, can they?” Like people admitting they like God is against the law. Irresponsible Force, Immovable Objector The last month of 2000 began the way it ended, with me trying to get the memory of the holidays as far away from my cerebellum as I could without the aid of some kind of cannon. My Thanksgiving decision to visit my sister with my parents, rather than staying in town and trying to suck up to the rest of the extended family, was officially a bad call. To paraphrase Shatner, double dumbass on me. As I sit here now and go over the play-by-play, choosing to share a hotel room with my mom and dad was only a minor blunder. Sure, I had no possible avenue of escape at the end of the day, but at least I wasn’t paying for this non-stop partay. No, I think my biggest tactical error was simply misjudging the deep, roiling lather of pure, naked hatred between my father and my sister. To set the scene: my sister is finishing up her victory lap at university right now, having dropped enough classes over the years to necessitate a fifth year. Now, after the last two decades of her life, if there is any one nugget of wisdom (other than “do not talk about Fight Club”) that she should have picked up, it is that the fastest way to lose the shiny popularity trophy in my house is to force my father to spend money. Any money. I had essentially every non-full-ride scholarship available, and he was royally pissed at me when I took a slacking, leisurely four years. So she’s already in the debit column. Unfortunately, my sister’s solution to this problem is along the lines of, “Well, he’s always gonna hate me anyway; might as well spend the textbook money on some magic beans! Yippee!” This solution, I concede, is not without merit; if we declared a family slogan, the engraved plaque in the reception area would read “Whatever You’re Doing Now is Wrong.” It’s not so much that there are a prescribed set of rights and wrongs; the disapproval shifts to match the situation. It’s really very flexible. Like Silly Putty, except with sucking. Under the circumstances, I can’t really blame her for not trying. If he’s gonna be pissy no matter what, might as well make it worth his time. Still, you’d think she’d at least have a go at amelioration, just for the change of pace. At the very least, you’d think she could at least pretend to acknowledge that she’s spending someone else’s money. I didn’t pay my own tuition (unless you count the scholarships, which incidentally I do), but I didn’t get an apartment and a goddamn allowance, either. Nor did I move to a more expensive apartment without consulting anyone just because I thought it looked cooler. Nor did I overdraw the checking account. Nor did I have late fees tacked onto my rent because I didn’t pay it on time. If you think Papa Jimski gets crimson at the thought of a fifth year of tuition, imagine him when he’s paying late fees and overdrafts. Ya walk into the house for a nice Sunday dinner, ya ask “Have you guys heard from Sis lately?” and suddenly it’s Hide the Knives time. This is the chicken and egg routine. My sister, chafing under Dad’s authoritarian nature, does something ridiculously absent-minded, which in turn causes my father to mutate into a ten foot Stalin, which in turn causes my sister to turn into a member of the Chicago Seven. I once witnessed my father making my sister orally balance her checkbook to him over a speakerphone while he checked her figures against a printout from the bank. It was so f***ing degrading, I pictured her on the other end of the phone in a bamboo tiger cage. Honestly, I don’t know which of the two of them is more irritating, the Irresponsible Force or the Immovable Objector. I feel like a sewer worker. I’m constantly dealing with massive explosions of shit that I did not make. So, Thanksgiving. I found out right before the trip that my sister had both paid her rent late and bounced some checks, putting her out of the running for #1 Daughter for the foreseeable future. Far from being discouraged, this made Dad more excited than ever about visiting her, and I could hear him sharpening the bayonet in the background the day I called to issue my warning. “Swear ta God,” I said, “if I get even a hint that we’re going down there to start shit, this is the last holiday you see me at for the next few years. Try me. Give me an excuse.” Great tone to kick off the holidays, innit? I got my assurances, though, and we hit the road for the heartland. When we arrived at my sister’s place, she was out on the porch waiting for us. “She’s out here waiting for us!” I said. “She’s probably out here smoking.” We got out of the car, and my sister ran up and gave my mom a hug. “Phew!” said my mom in response to the hug. “What have you been burning? You stink! You need to change clothes!” At this point, the visit had been going on for approximately three seconds. Many more such delightful moments would be ahead of me in the following thirty hours, giving me ample mental quiet time to think about whether or not I was as screwed up as these people. “I… I don’t feel insane. Would I feel nuts if I were nuts? Maybe I should ask one of these guys.” Our Thanksgiving feast this year was to be held at the elegant Ramada Inn buffet line. My pop could not fathom why I would find this depressing. Our immediate family and three solitary elderly strangers, scattered among the glum hotel employees who were missing their family dinners to refill water glasses and keep the macaroni heated. And as the dinner conversation progressed, I came to realize that the whole trip was solely my father’s idea, and that he was extraordinarily pleased with himself because he now apparently despises the rest of our family. He doesn’t just wish the kids behaved a little better; he hates all of them as people, and he preferred reheated hotel stuffing to the thought of children running around among his precious, precious things. I have my share of antisocial tendencies, and I probably have your share, too. I’m uncomfortable and nervous in large groups. I freak out alone in crowds. When I see how happy my dad is to have devised a plan to keep away from the family during the family holiday, I feel like I’m staring into a funhouse mirror I’d like very much to smash. “You know, my last serious relationship ended partly because my girlfriend was afraid I was going to end up acting like you people! It seems that, somehow, I had developed some communication problems. I’m your fault! Punchy punchy!” That’s a copout. I’m my fault. But it’s all maddening anyway. It was decided we’d see a movie after dinner. You know, I worked at a movie theater on Thanksgiving day once. Oh, I remember how much I loved the customers that day. “Here is your change. Thank you, and enjoy your show, your precious show that you needed to see so badly that I had to leave my family just as they were sitting down to dinner. Don’t forget your ticket, sir, your invaluable ticket to the unmissable Naked Gun 33 1/3 rd! Oh, I see your family is with you! How nice for you all, that you all get to be together today! If you’re not too stuffed with delicious, delicious turkey, perhaps I could enhance your enjoyment of this magical evening by serving you some popcorn! As a suppository!” So, my transformation into everything that I despise is now complete. I still preferred it to conversation. Because I think if there was a single highlight-reel moment from the weekend, it would have to be when my dad pulled out a set of health insurance forms for my sister after dinner and, under the pretext of filling them out, proceeded to ask my sister a litany of humiliating personal questions in front of all of us. “Let’s see. . . smoker or non-smoker? You still smoking?” “Some. . . sometimes.” “How much of my money are you using on cigarettes per week, would you say?” “I. . . not much. One. None. Never mind. What’s a cigarette?” “’Smoker. . . yes.’ Okay. What were the results of your last pap smear?” No he did not. Oh, yes he did! My father! To my sister! “Hey, guys! What should we do after dinner? Scrabble? Pictionary? Discuss Sis’s gynecology?” I wish I could continue that story, but honestly, like some kind of assault survivor, I have no memory whatsoever of what came next. I went to my Happy Place. I only pray my sister said something really sharp and sarcastic like, “Results? Oh, they were positive. I have cervical cancer. Did I not mention that in my last phone call?” But I get the sense that I’d have remembered that. Passive Living And so began December. I thought Thanksgiving was kind of a tone-setter. When I dropped out of site on these pages, I wasn’t trying to fake my own death or anything; sometimes, I just need some distance to feel like I’m not wallowing in my own piss, so to speak. I’ve learned that the best way for me to be a functional human being is to occasionally shake things off for a bit rather than sitting down and rehashing them immediately and obsessively. Ever see a little kid fall on his face but not start crying until he realizes somebody saw him? It’s a little like that. I caught myself suffering from Journal Ego, too. I started getting irritated when people asked me questions that were answered in journal entries, like not hanging on my every written word was some kind of unspeakable snub, like I’m friggin’ Faulkner or something. “Hey Jim, would you like some coffee cake? Do you even like coffee cake?” “How could you not know that? I talked all about that in my epic masterpiece ‘My Trip to the Grocery Store’ in January of 1999! I can’t f***ing believe you! I thought we were supposed to be friends!” A little fresh air was in order. On the plus side, at least this web site was something I was showing interest in. I’ve been thinking more and more lately about the fact that I just don’t show a lot of interest in anything anymore. I have a severe Like deficit. Somewhere along the line, my desire to be agreeable rendered me a passionless blob. I can be paralyzed by the most basic questions. What is your favorite color? Do you have a lucky number? What is your favorite movie? What is your favorite food? I have no answers to these questions. How the hell do you not have answers to questions like that? How does “what is your favorite color” get to be a stumper? Who were the last three prime ministers of Canada? What is Luxembourg’s chief export? How many centimeters in a mile? These questions maybe merit a puzzled expression. But favorite food? Your hand should be on the buzzer for that one. Favorite movie? Nothing comes to mind! After all, movies are only the closest thing I have to a hobby. Why would I have a favorite? Oh, I know: because I would have to be an absolute f***ing freak to love movies so much and not have a favorite! What a mess of a creature I am. I think all these unanswered questions are symptoms of a larger problem of mine, the problem of passive living. It boils down to this: I go out a lot, I have a lot of good friends, and I always keep pretty busy, but I’m always accepting the invitation. If I’m out with my friends, it’s because one of them asked me to do something and I either accepted or declined. I’m never the one who has the thing he wants to do. It’s never my idea. I’m never the one who made the phone call; I’m always the one who answered the phone. I’m always replying to the e-mail. I think that’s pretty screwed up. I think it’s about time I did something about it. A little less self-analysis, a little more self-development. I need to be an active agent in my own life. Of course, I can remember saying these exact words to someone a year and a half ago, so maybe I shouldn’t submit that sample chapter for my self help book just yet. Hot Wheels on Cold Road A couple of weeks into December, Joan visited as promised. Well, not promised. Hinted. Prophesied. Clued. Joan is a woman after my own heart, a terribly spontaneous and impromptu beast, particularly when it comes to travel. I could never dare travel as Joan travels. Joan will have a trip planned for Friday and will not have sleeping arrangements as of Wednesday. And it always works out for her, so I can’t fault the method, but preparing for her visits is just a little like playing ping-pong. You have to stay on the balls of your feet; she could be coming from any direction any second now. She mentioned as an aside in an e-mail in November that she might be in town next month, and I immediately wrote “JOAN” in big letters on my calendar so that I wouldn’t get faked out. I didn’t hear from her again. I hadn’t heard from her the day before she was supposed to arrive. This made it almost certain that I would see her. I called just to make sure, and sure enough, she planned to be in the next afternoon. Dr. Joan was interviewing for a residency at a local hospital, staying for a couple of days and then driving on to Indy for another interview. Mi sofa su sofa, said I, and I was told to await her after work the next day. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans for all of us that week. A message was on my answering machine when I got home. Joan was in the emergency room. About two blocks from my front door, in the middle of an ill-fated left turn, Joan had been rammed by a van full of people. Her car had been obliterated, and she had been loaded into an ambulance on a spine board. Of course, the hospital was only one block from my front door. So in that sense, the life-threatening accident was very convenient for me. I immediately grabbed my coat and walked over to the hospital. (Yes, I walked, because it never once occurred to me that I would be transporting an accident victim when I returned home, because I am the smartest person alive.) I tried to be as calm and collected as possible while tracking her down in the emergency room. After all, how many times have we seen that sequence on “E.R.” where the mother or spouse or friend of the victim bursts into the room shrieking with all that (shudder) concern, causing the doctor to sneer at them like 24-carat morons and stop choking on his disdain only long enough to mutter, “Oh, get him out of here”? And then the nurses bounce the guy out of the room for the crime of being freaked out, like he was gonna lick the bullet wound or gouge the doctor’s eyes out or something? We’ve all seen that sequence, right? They use it about twice a week. Well, that wasn’t gonna be me, no sir. I was not going to earn the enmity of the hospital staff with any ostentatious concern. The most valuable lesson I’ve ever learned from “E.R.” is that doctors hate nothing more than people who care about their loved ones. The second most important thing I’ve learned is that “E.R.” sucks my left nut. What “E.R.” doesn’t really touch on is how exactly the people who work in hospitals, arguably people devoted solely to others’ lives, could come to act like they hate people so very very much. Fortunately, I go to the hospital infrequently enough to forget this every time, but my memory is always refreshed when trying to find the latest patient. “Hi, a friend of mine was brought here after an auto accident...?” (without taking eyes off crossword puzzle) “How nice for you.” “Could... could you tell me where I might be able to find her?” “Probably.” (begins reading romance novel) And yes, yes, I’m sure the nurses are all actually very dedicated and had been there 47 hours straight or some bulls*** that justified me being treated like I’d come in to get my driver’s license photo taken or something, but you know what? I have the least important job you can have without involving Beanie Babies in some way, and if I treated my professional, no-reason-to-be-particularly-upset clients with half the disregard I get from E.R. nurses, I would be beaten to death. And then thrown. It’s not like I was being pushy or demanding unnecessary attention. It’s not like anybody was lying in the waiting room with a javelin sticking out of his abs. I just had this pesky urge to see whether or not my friend was dead. Although, as I told myself at the time, she was the one who’d called me in the first place, so it couldn’t be that bad. She was okay enough to use a phone. It turned out she “just” had some kind of chest wall contusion from the seat belt, from when the car was sent spinning into the road by the collision. Still, seeing her on the spine board was profoundly disturbing, as was being there while the police officer interviewed her about what happened. Eventually, I was sent back out into the waiting room so that she could be x-rayed and call her husband, who I imagine was pacing the floors far worse than I was. As I sat out in the waiting room watching people go in and out in various stages of panic and exhaustion, I became really melancholy. I don’t have a spouse to call when I careen into a van. If this happened to me, who would I even call? My mother? She’d have a heart attack and be on the bedpan right next to me. So as the time dragged on, my worry for Joan began to get mixed in with loneliness, something I hadn’t given myself time for in a while. What will bring me to this hospital next time? Things happen... older every day... only a matter of time... and nobody to call. Do you ever just want to bill your ex-girlfriends for your time? While I waited for the nurse to tell me I could go back and be with Joan again, I was paid a visit by Joan, who was discharged while I was waiting for information from the helpful and courteous staff. She was terribly sore but didn’t want me to go back and get the car, so we walked to my apartment and planned out the next day. Just because she had wrecked the car did not mean the interview she was in town for was going anywhere. Unfortunately, her car had gone somewhere. They’d towed it off to a body shop, and although someone did pick up the phone when we called, that someone was not willing to open the door and let us get Joan’s stuff out of her car. That meant that she had to be in a suit and at a hospital across town Wednesday morning, but we didn’t know when because the schedule was in the car. We didn’t have the suit, or any of her clothes, or any of the important phone numbers we needed to call someone at the hospital, or really anything we needed except the clothes on her back and a new prescription for painkillers that both of us were beginning to need. I called my office and informed the voice mail system that I wasn’t coming in the next day. Joan called the one relevant number miraculously stored on her cell phone and informed their voice mail she would probably be late. We’d drive to the tow place at 7:30, change clothes quickly and scurry to the hospital. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans. Somebody upstairs thought it would be hi-larious to toss a foot of snow on the ground Wednesday morning. Things up to that point, you see, had just not been complicated enough. So in addition to everything else, we had to clean 30 pounds of snow off my car, clean off the road surrounding my car so it would move, and then drive all over town all day on the worst road conditions that I have ever seen. I should note to those who are unfamiliar with my vehicle situation that I drive a hatchback Matchbox car made out of Tupperware and weighing approximately 17 ounces. The only two things I can be certain of when there’s even half an inch of snow on the ground are that the car is never, ever going to stop when I hit the brakes and that it is always going to be stuck right where it is when I hit the accelerator. If this car is ever involved in any accident of any kind, every single person in the car will quite simply die instantly. You would think these conditions would make me a bad driver. On the contrary. Over the years, unlike with the humans in my life, I have learned to anticipate exactly the way this car is going to screw me over every single time. It hasn’t caught me by surprise in years. I know how to make the car’s random, wild out-of-control twirls on the open road work for everybody. The car and I are a unit of inadequacy. I am by no means the world’s best driver, but no one on earth drives a 1993 Geo Storm better than I do. It’s just that simple. That having been said, these are not skills I enjoy testing. Nevertheless, we made it through the day, even when (just for added cosmic hilarity) the windshield wipers stopped working. (The snow continued working until about 8:00 that night.) Dr. Joan was ten minutes late for her interview. No one there knew she would be late; the person she’d called the night before decided the roads were too bad and had never come in that day. All was well, considering. A highlight of the day was when I was waiting to go pick Joan up (the interview was an all day affair necessitating two trips in the treachery) and my mother called to make sure I was safe at home. “Yes, I’m here,” I said. “Oh, thank goodness you didn’t have to go out in this,” said she. “Actually, I did have to go out in it! And I’ll do it again! Mwa-hahahahahaha!” But I had to be a freak about it, you see, to give myself the confidence I needed to get back in the Hot Wheels after all the s*** I’d seen during the first trip. The major highways were cleared of snow about as well as country side streets usually are. It looked like Juneau. Mom disapproved strongly. I assured her I’d make it out alive. Anyway, after the whole day was behind us, I wanted to call my mom and let her know I was okay, but I thought it would be funny to open the call by breathlessly whining, “Mom? Mom, I’m all right... the car... is upside down in a swimming pool...” I thought the detail at the end would be so obviously ridiculous that Mom would go, “Oh, you idiot,” and shrug off my obvious lie rather than what she actually did, which is shriek, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod” and begin running around her home flapping her arms until I assured her I’d been kidding. She was pretty pissed. I was so incredulous that she’d believed me in the first place, I’m not even sure I was sorry. After an uneventful Thursday, with Joan as a captive in my home, I took Friday off. Joan had planned to do her Christmas shopping in St. Louis, but the wreck had seen to that. I decided I’d take her shopping as a way of eking some relaxation out of the week. Of course, Friday morning, it was snowing again. For the second time in recorded history, my car would not start. We ended up walking to the bagel shop down the road. This walk was ill-advised. We were very wet and very cold and very trapped in my neighborhood. Given the way my car performs and the fact that the tape deck just broke, it took a real chance by not starting. I think it underestimates just how quickly I could get some New Car Money together if I was serious about that PT Cruiser. Joan left on Saturday with the promise that she would have the curse lifted before she came back again. I called AAA and my car, sensing the opportunity to embarrass me, immediately began to work perfectly. I cancelled AAA. A short while later, I went out to drive my car, at which point the locks froze shut. These are the games I have been playing with the car ever since. It’s just asking to join Joan’s down at the junkyard. The snow shows no signs of melting, and it gets refreshed by a new layer every couple of days. I can’t remember the last time we went through anything like this. God help us when spring rolls around, at least those of us who live on a flood plain. P.A.S. For most of December, I’ve been feeling very bipolar. I think. Is it bipolar if you feel like you’re in a very bad mood and a very good mood at exactly the same moment? Is that even possible? Have I invented a new kind of mental state, Prolonged Ambivalence Syndrome? I had a lot of fun this Christmas, because I have some of the truly greatest friends anyone can imagine. I had a blast shopping for them, I had a blast seeing them, I was touched by how many of them went out of their way to make time for me without any prompting, even if they were only going to be in town for a couple of days and had family to see. It was very rousing. I simultaneously had very little fun this Christmas because Christmas is at its essence a family holiday, and my family just refuses to conform to the way a family should be. These are the people who we rely on for unconditional support and love, and yet these are the people who say the harshest, most unforgiving things. My sister was late for Christmas. She was supposed to get into town in time for an early church service on Christmas eve. She breezed into town at about 8:30 that night. She never called to say she was leaving. She never called to say she was en route. She just showed up six or seven hours late. Now, that was rude and thoughtless, but you deal with it. She shows up at the family Christmas party, you give her a little “nice going, jackass,” and everybody gets on with their lives. One would think. On the other hand, you can also opt to not say a word to her for the duration of her visit, even though she is sleeping in your home and it is Christmas. This would be the option of choice if you are my father. In two years, when my sister is gainfully employed and doesn’t spend my dad’s money anymore, he will want to be her best friend. He will be absolutely puzzled and hurt when she doesn’t want anything to do with him. There was a point where I had admonished my sister and bygones were bygones when we were sitting together at the bar in my cousin’s basement waiting for Santa to make his annual photo-op visit. “So, how much s*** am I in?” she asked me. “You know the players; you know the plays,” I said. “Mom could give a rat’s ass; you two have been hanging out all night already, so you know that. Dad is gonna be Dad; you’ve simply focused the way in which he can disapprove of you for your stay. After Christmas you’re going out to California with your boyfriend, right? That was probably what he was going to hate about you before this. Now he just hates this.” “After Thanksgiving, you can’t really blame me for putting off this trip,” she said. I looked across the room. My dad was shooting the breeze with one of my cousins in a room full of my relatives. “Tell ya how to handle this,” I said to my sister. “He’s over there talking to John in a room full of people. Get up and go over there right this minute and sincerely, contritely apologize to him in public.” “No,” she said, “no, c’mon now, I can’t...” “Listen to me,” I said. “This is a brilliant plan. You go over and say you’re sorry right now, and he has to be nice to you. Everybody around like that? Right in front of John? Either he accepts your apology in the spirit of Christmas, or he has to be a total dick to you in front of everybody. Either way, you come out ahead.” And I was right. I just had no idea that he would choose to be a total dick to her in front of everybody. She rolled with it, though; she apologized, he was a s***head, she kinda went “okay then,” and she came back over to the bar and continued her evening. I don’t have a spouse to call after my car accident. The girl I wanted to marry broke up with me, in part because she got a good look at the people who brought me up. I don’t want the girl back, but I sure am pissed at my old man right now. (Beats blaming yourself, anyway.) I’m told he did eventually talk to my sister after I left. According to reports, he informed her that she is a lost cause and offered her money to “ride off into the sunset.” A lost cause. You know, because of all the drugs she doesn’t do and the sex she doesn’t have, because of the way she struggled through school until she found something she excelled at, because of the way she spends 80 hours a week on that schoolwork now. A real washout. I hope it’s important enough to him. My sister and I are a package deal. I still manage to be surprised at the things he thinks it’s acceptable to say to people. Someday, I will have him committed. I will sell all of his belongings, and I will use the money solely to buy nachos. 2000 Last night, I was convinced that I had wasted 2000. Now I’m not so sure. I can’t say I’m a better person than I was a year ago, but I’ve definitely trimmed some of the fat from my life, both figuratively and literally. I stopped doing things I didn’t enjoy just for the sake of having something to do. I put up with a lot less BS in 2000, certainly. I began to develop the ability to walk away from a bad situation even if it meant being alone. These are all good things, certainly, things I did not do before 2000 in any decent or substantial way. After a bad breakup, I finally started going out again. I had my rebound relationship. I went in saying, “This time isn’t going to be anything like the last time!”, had a relationship that wasn’t anything like the last time, and didn’t much care for it. The breakup was one of the best I’ve had. Haven’t been very good at meeting people since then, but that’s what 2001 is for. Rome wasn’t burned in a day. I moved into a new office with a pinball machine and a new salary. I bought a new computer with my own money for the first time ever. By the end of the year, I had essentially every tech toy I’d ever wanted. All that’s really left now is a house, and I don’t particularly want one of those. I finally started trying to get into shape. I did badly, but I kept at it. I cooked a lobster, cracked it open with a hammer from my tool box, and ate it with my bare hands. My dad retired. One day, I left my car window rolled down and a bird flew in and repeatedly defecated all over everything. My friends Ken and Adam moved back into town and began teaching at my high school. This was deeply weird. Karen and Mary Catherine moved away. I told myself that, unlike most of my other departed friends, they would probably be back. Nicole promised that she was coming back, but then she didn’t. My fish died. I bought jimski.net, making this site an actual site after three years of languishing over at AOL. The wonder of Trivia Nights was discovered and enjoyed so much that we ended up sick of ‘em like a bag full of Halloween candy. Joan got married. I drove through a blizzard and a torrential downpour within three miles of a tornado. My power was out for a week after the tornado, and the contents of my refrigerator leaked all over my floor. I played a small but appreciated role in a political campaign. I met a lot of nice people without thinking to ask for their phone numbers. I finally ended my long-standing feud with Eminem. The Army repeatedly irritated me by showing a TV commercial in which Mr. Montez is called to the blackboard in a college math class to solve a problem. You know, like people always used to get called to the blackboard in your college math class! Mr. Montez is so toughened by his weekend experiences in the Army that the math problem is no sweat. He solves it. The class breaks out into spontaneous applause. You know, like people always used to spontaneously applaud each other in your college classes! Paradoxically, this convinces me that the Army is composed of idiots. One of the dumbest orangutans who ever had his daddy buy him into Yale was elected leader of the free world. Kinda. My friends all developed a psychosis wherein they would not go see a movie with me if I had already seen it, even if I really wanted to see it again. I began routinely lying about which movies I had seen. I only got caught once. And our football team blew their shot at the Super Bowl this year, so bonus. journal index | journal archive | journal search | e-mail me