Day 3421 - Threes

Hello all,

It's been a fairly good week--a few days off, a fantastic Postal Service concert at Red Rocks, macaroni and cheese--, and I thought I would share some things.

Most specifically, I've had an idea over the past few days that I can't seem to shake.  The idea is this:

When any individual has three continuous vacation days in a row--and it must be three (no more, no less)--it is inevitable that said individual will reevaluate his or her course in life.  Specifically, they will find that, when they return to work, the priorities they had valued before their leave now seem not-so-worthwhile.  

For example, I had a three day hiatus from work this week.  During this time, I came up with some great ideas for my future (inspired largely by this, this, and maybe a little bit of this).  I felt inspired and invigorated--ready to try new things and take risks!  It seems that three days is just long enough to get delusions like that.  It's just long enough for the mind to start adventuring but just short enough to keep it from getting lost.

With this in mind, I think I am going to try and structure my time in three day increments from now on.

Upon reading this, some of you may remember that in high school I wanted to start measuring time in "snoozes"--that is, the length of time allowed by the average alarm clock snooze button (i.e. 9 minutes)--and I still stand by that idea!

But this one should work as well: Day 1 for rest and errands, Day 2 for plotting grand schemes, Day 3 for coffee drinking and walking around in fields of moderately well-manicured grass.

So, that's the plan.  I will post my findings on this blog in the most scientific fashion I can muster.

Stuff I Did as a Function of Days I Didn't Do Stuff

Yes.

love always,
-jim.

P.S. Also this.

Day 3409 - Thoughts on Flat Tires and the Bicyclical Nature of Things

Hey there internet,

I was just writing to let you know that my bicycle has had a flat tire since last fall.  It's an easy fix, and I have the tools that I need, but I haven't gotten around to it yet.  So, my bike currently sits in my chicken-wire-clad storage unit, gathering dust, waiting for me to complete this simple task.

But I haven't yet.  So, yes.

Things have been pretty slow around here lately.  I've gotten into a consistent groove of work days and laundry days--and I've managed to make an assortment of peanut butter sandwiches to cover both.
My haircuts occur on a fairly regular schedule and just last night I made a trip to the store to buy a watch battery. (Watch batteries, as you may know, are the most monotonously specific sort of batteries, which only people who are really intent on using actually purchase).  This is the life of a comfortable, semi-regimentally-routined twenty something.  This is the dream.

About a week ago, my neighbors who live upstairs left their music on full blast until about two in the morning.  It was frustrating, and after a long while banging on the door and calling the landlord it finally shut off.  But even after the music stopped I had a hard time getting to sleep.  I think it was because the whole time I wasn't really thinking about how the music was loud or how I had to work in the morning.  The whole time I was thinking: 

This is really unfair because these people have only lived here a few months, and I've lived here for like ten!  If I wanted to be loud, I could, because I was here first!  They've barely lived here!  I've paid my dues!  Loud music is my unalienable right and mine alone!  I am tenant to the first degree!  

Eventually this made me feel silly, and I went to sleep.

I think in every situation you inevitably reach that point of entitlement when you declare yourself master of all your surroundings.  At some point there's a moment when you consistently think of yourself as Tenant¹, or Employee¹, or Loud Music Player¹ and nothing else really matters.  You've risen to the top and you're staying there, damn it.

And sometimes that's a good thing.  You've learned a lot on your way there.  Maybe you've learned that the bottom dryer at your apartment doesn't require quarters if you hit the button just right.  Or perhaps you've discovered that there are certain systems at work that will run really slow unless you know the right work arounds.  Your confidence comes from your knowledge--and your knowledge is vastly larger than when you started.

That being said, there are very few surprises at the top.  I'm at a point in my job where I've stopped asking very many questions.  I simply replay the same scenarios day after day.  I repeat the same idea over and over in my head:  I've paid my dues.  I'm employee to the first degree.  I'm good at what I do.  My confidence in my tasks destroys my confidence in myself.

This is all a very roundabout way of saying that I'm looking for a new challenge.  Any time you become the big fish in the little pond, it's probably time to find a new pond.  I need to find something that can make me start asking questions again, something that can entirely devour my schedule and lifestyle with the promise of a challenge.  I will not be satisfied until my work/laundry schedule is entirely messed up--until I cannot find the time to make myself peanut butter sandwiches--until I can be the loud neighbor without having lived there long enough to have earned it!

What that challenge might be, I have no idea--but I'm open to suggestions.

I'll try to get involved in anything if it helps me accomplish this simple goal:

Some day soon, someone will come up to me while I'm working on whatever my new endeavor might be, and they'll ask, "Hey, did you ever get your bike fixed?"

And slowly--through a thick tangle of unkempt hair, my dirty t-shirt hanging from my unfed body--I'll reply, "No, I haven't gotten around to it yet."* 

love always,
-jim.  

*This is a metaphor.  

In reality, I would like to fix my bike so I can ride it to coffee shops and parks and junk.  

    

Day 3121 - Comfortable

"Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying, 'Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?' . . . In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: 'No, that’s it.' Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying, 'I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a damn for.' You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun."  -Ray Bradbury

So it's been a good long while since I last wrote here, and I find that I am extremely comfortable with how the last year has gone.

I am secure. I spend 32 hours a week at work. I'm becoming a regular at the Park Meadows Starbucks (grande vanilla latte, $3.85).  I'm confident with my job security and my health insurance and my performance reviews.  I've gotten used to my commute along C470 in the afternoon, calculating my gas mileage (16.170mpg) every time I stop at the 7/11 on Mineral and Santa Fe.  My diet has been sufficiently regulated--an app on my phone allows me 1,740 calories a day.  Everyday that I'm at work, I eat a turkey sub for lunch, with a medium Diet Dr. Pepper.  When I get home, I feel comfortable sitting in bed and eating a whole thing of blueberries.  Every Tuesday, I play trivia at Jordan's Pub and am confident that our team will always place fourth.  Every Wednesday, I play trivia at The Pioneer and am confident that our team will always place fourth to last.  I have things locked down.

But I understand that this isn't how I should be.

This was the year that I told myself was going to be a year of revelation--a year that really made me understand what it was I was supposed to be doing in the world.  I was going to read and write and completely immerse myself in a life that I would create as I went along, flying by the seat of my pants.  Writing would happen easily--organically; It would find me so simply that I would have no choice but to wake up every morning to the loud buzz of ideas flitting around in my head.  Ideas pressing increasingly harder at the edges of my temples, begging to get out, to become real.  I am not supposed to be comfortable--I am supposed to be exploding. 

But that hasn't really happened.  I haven't read much and I haven't written much and I haven't been uncomfortable much.

I sign a new lease tomorrow, on an apartment down near DU, and I can't help but think of it as a metaphor.  Either it will represent another routine--a comfortable 12-month promise of a strictly defined lifestyle--or it will be a clean break.  And the thing that scares me is that I'm afraid that I've written this before--written that I am at a precipice, and something is finally going to change that will motivate me and everything will change.  Yet again, I'm writing about a self-imposed boundary that will determine my success or failure. 

But perhaps that's just the comfortable post for me to write.  Perhaps that is what I write routinely when I want to escape routines.  Which is a bit of a conundrum, isn't it?  I often feel like it's a way for my subconscious to work against itself--one side saying, "Yes! You're nearly there! Just cross that line and you've made it! This is where things change, and it gets easier!" and the other side saying, "I don't like you anymore. You're writing about things I don't give a damn for.  You're writing about things that are outside my comfort zone."

Well, "to hell with that," subconscious--I think I'm ready to be uncomfortable.

-jim.

Day 2838 - Ira Glass

So yesterday James, Gretchen, and I drove up to Fort Collins to see the number one person on my "People Who Inspire You" List: Ira Glass.  And I've spent the last hour or so trying to write a blog about it.

I'm finding that it's extremely difficult to put into words how amazing it is to see someone doing exactly what I want to do with my life (and especially doing it extremely well).  And it's not just difficult to describe because I feel like my writing won't live up to Ira's style of storytelling, but also because summing up a two hour talk from someone with such amazing insight always seems like a cheap shot: spouting out a few slogans, or soundbites, completely out of context and with little regard to. . . well anything really.

I'd have to say that what I love about Ira Glass is that he's so completely honest, and it seems like distilling that raw emotion, or power--or whatever you want to call it--into a blog feels like cramming a library full of all the best stories in the world into a fortune cookie.  Sure, I could talk about how he basically cut audio into what sounded exactly like an episode of This American Life right there on stage using just a microphone and an iPad.  Or I could tell you any number of quotes that gave me chills.  I'm sure you would be interested about the part of the talk when he made a balloon animal poodle and gave it to a lady in the fifth row, which was fantastic.  But that couldn't begin to sum it up.  
Summing it up would be impossible.  As Ira said yesterday, "The goal isn't to report what is new.  It's to report what is."  Not just the flash, but the real truthy details of something.

And I must say, when that is your goal, blogging becomes extremely difficult.    

Blogging with that in mind is like having Ira Glass standing over my shoulder, his glasses gently reflecting the light of my computer screen.  And he's softly mumbling, "I was, um. . . I was really inspiring today, you know what I mean?  And it's like you didn't really absorb it.  You tried to absorb it, but you didn't really absorb it.  I've gotta tell you, uh, I don't know if you. . . If you really understood it."

And that picture is super intimidating right about now, so instead of trying to sum up honestly, I'll just leave you with this:



love always,
-jim.

P.S. Two more things:

1. Nanowrimo starts tomorrow and I'm going to try really, really hard this year (fingers crossed).
2. I've been thinking over the past couple of weeks that I really want to apply to be a This American Life intern, and hearing Ira Glass speak today only confirmed my aspiration (fingers crossed).       

   

Day 2833 - A Snow Day

So it snowed tonight.  And it seems like every year during the first snow, everyone rediscovers snow for the first time.  Facebook is filled with status updates: Snow! It's snowing! I hope tomorrow's a snow day!  People look out their windows with a sort of odd curiosity, like they'd forgotten that snow even existed--like summer was so long that it made them forget the comfort of a warm blanket and a cup of hot chocolate.  The first snow seems to bring back all those memories in a flood.

Most years I share the sentiment of those people.  No matter how old I get, I seem to gasp whenever I first see flakes outside my window.  But this year--for the first time in a long time--I find myself simply zipping my sweatshirt slightly higher and looking out the window thinking, how strange.

The biggest snow storm I can remember started 14 years ago yesterday--my birthday.  It might not have been the biggest storm during my lifetime, but it was about 150% of the average October precipitation and it did lead to the postponement of my ninth birthday party--which, at that age, was a fairly catastrophic scheduling adjustment.   

On that day, my dad dug out trenches in the snow like a maze, and I spent the entire day outside.  I think I built a snowman and a snow fort; and I probably fantasized about throwing snowballs at passersby--but I don't think that I actually did.  I just camped out, my black and purple coat soaking up the snow, until it got dark.  And I did the same thing for the next two days until the blizzard was gone.  It was a pretty good birthday--and a pretty good snow day.

However, this year I find that I'm not sure if I want a snow day.  When I look at the snow, I don't heave any sigh of relief or wipe my brow at the prospect of escaping work or stress.  I really just see snow.

And that's not to say that I haven't been working.  I've been working a lot.  It's almost all that I do.

Instead, I think it's because I'm in a sort of in-between time.  Between my work in college and my work on my career--whatever that may be.  I'm in the transition between my education and my passion.  And maybe you don't really need a snow day during that time.  You just need to spend all of your time trying to figure out where you're headed and what work you love to do.  And once you find that work, that's when you can start to remember--despite the length of the summer--what winter is like.  You can finally remember the comfort of a warm blanket and a cup of hot chocolate.  But until then, you just keep searching for the job that is your job and the future that is your future.  You keep searching, and once you find it you can understand its amazement again.

At least I hope that's the case, because this year I can't help but fear that I'm stuck in a rut and I need a change of seasons as a soon as possible.

love always,
-jim.

Day 2807 - You've Got Mail

Hello everyone,

So it's about 3 in the morning, and I can't sleep.  And because I can't sleep, I've spent the last few hours updating my computer.  I installed a new operating system, rearranged folders, synced my calendars, and started transitioning from my CSU email account to Gmail.

I've set the emails to automatically forward from the old account to the new one--so they are slowly trickling in every few seconds.  This means that I've spent the past two hours or so just watching them come in, one by one, as though they are being sent right now by computers that are just processing things far too late.  And I must say, it's a strange feeling seeing messages come through from old professors, and coworkers, and classmates about subjects that I've for the most part forgotten--seemingly allowing me to relive the past few years of my life in fast-forward.

In high school I would spend almost every weeknight sitting in front the computer hitting the refresh button on my email over and over again.  High school me would hit the refresh and wait for some sort of message, any message really, as I watched the tiny hourglass icon spin around.  I really have no idea why I did that.  It seems silly now, as I don't think I ever really got many emails.  But there was something therapeutic about the act of hitting refresh, like I was searching for something, waiting for something.  But looking back, I can't help but wonder what it was that I was waiting for.

Tonight, I received over 3000 emails from my old address.  Some were from coworkers looking to get shifts covered.  Others were from professors sending out announcements or syllabi.  There were stories from writing group and fiction workshops, emails from close friends and forgotten acquaintances.  There were emails that said basically nothing the first time that I read them, but mean a lot now.  When I got my first email from Mike (detailing the iBox lost and found policy), I never would have thought he'd be my future roommate.  When James and I first emailed our lease for the Edwards house, I had no idea that the sprinkler system would explode in the winter or that our living room would become one of my all-time favorite places.  If only I could talk to Freshmen Year Jim and tell him all the things that he had on the horizon.   

It's funny to see how much of my life I've put into email.  Even when I didn't know it.  These seemingly insignificant fragments of text have plotted the course of my jobs, my writing, my friendships.  I still can't explain the pride that I felt receiving the email announcing the birth of my nephew, Malcom, or the emptiness that I felt after the email that announced the death of my granddad.

It's incredible to me how much a person can say to another person, even when they aren't trying to.  Even in a medium that seems so adroit at saying nothing particularly significant, I can find a way to immerse myself in the ridiculously varied layers of meaning that compose life.  I find myself analyzing the smallest correspondences, wishing that I could predict what the words will mean five years from now.  Searching for that one sentence that will sum up this time in my life, this particular experience.     

How apt then, that I should be here at four in the morning, once again hitting "refresh."

love always,
-jim.

P.S. The new email is james.e.taggart@gmail.com.  Send me something that will make for a good read in five years.    
  

Day 2745 - Moving Day

Hello Everyone,

Sorry about the delay in any posts recently--the Summer of Jim is coming to a close, and it has been pretty crazy.  But, since it's moving day and this will be the last post that I write from this wonderful town, I thought it would be appropriate to write a sort of farewell blog.  A farewell to CSU, farewell to Fort Collins, farewell to college years sort of blog.

But first, in the interest of housekeeping, here are some updates on things that have happened, which people might not know about if they haven't seen me in a while:

• I'm not going to graduate school.  I got in, but I have relatively little money and I feel like having an adventure.  So the MFA is being put on hold in support of finding an internship, a job, and visiting Lindsay when she studies abroad. 
• I've been doing pretty poorly at writing every day.  Perhaps a summer with no school or job commitments made me pretty lazy?  (i.e. all play and no work makes Jim a dull boy)?
• Considering the points above, I am moving to Denver, land of opportunity and free rent at my parents' house.

Alright, so we're all caught up.  Fantastic.  And I must say, that little bit of closure was probably the easy part; the rest of this blog is going to be really difficult to write.  This is primarily because I am very sad to be moving, but also because there are three painters in my house right now who are pacing back and forth through all of my furniture-less rooms, commenting about nail holes and dings on door frames.  The carpet cleaners will arrive this afternoon to share their own comments about the glob of blue ink on the floor near the window.  So, I can't help but feel like property management is already doing its best to erase any indication that I ever lived here.

So hopefully this post can serve as a sort of time capsule.

I lived in the house on Edwards St. for two years, from August 2009-August 2011.  My stay started in the semi-famous "rappe' basemaux" unit, where I lived in a room the size of a closet and stubbed my toes on uneven ceramic tiles, before moving upstairs to a regular sized bedroom.  During that time, I was involved with my first writing group (but you knew that, because--if you are reading this--it is likely that you were also a member).  In October, I celebrated my 21st and 22nd birthdays, and Lindsay and I had our second and third anniversaries.  I played a lot of video games, learned how to cook relatively edible food, and began referring to Fort Collins as "home" and Littleton as "my folks' house."

I also rode my bike, mowed the lawn, and sat on the front stoop watching people pass on the sidewalk.  From this house, I embarked on three trips to Wyoming--two of which were successful and one of which was food poisoning.  There were failed attempts to have a "Hoity-Toity Well-To-Do Affair," to invent a new type of cocktail, and to eventually visit the Number 1 Chinese Super Buffet around the corner.  I made new friends, ate good food, wrote stories, and generally enjoyed life.

The last two years were the best years of my life thus far, and I feel like the biggest idiot for moving away.  But I think it's time to get started with being a grown up (er whatever).

So, as I write to you from a strangely empty house where only myself, a file cabinet, and three painters remain, I feel like I need to admit--as I always do--that something is changing.  Perhaps more so than ever.

College years, you've served me well and I will miss you dearly.  Thanks for everything.

Love always,
-jim.

Day 2637 - A Correction

Correction: 

In the post titled writing about 1/24/04, the following statement was written in error "remember pogs,[sic] wow those are dumb." 

In fact, pogs are awesome, and the world would be a much better place if they still existed.  We here at the [jim]b[o]log would like to apologize for this egregious error and assure you that we have fond memories of an Apollo 13 slammer shaped like the moon, which we received from Bo who lived down the street.

We realize that this correction is roughly seven years past due, but figure that late is better than never and hope that your views of the blog will not be tarnished by this lack of fact checking.

Furthermore, would anyone be interested in playing a few rounds of the Pokemon Trading Card Game?  There's a holographic Zapdos in one of my old binders that is definitely ready to throw-down.

Again, sorry about the mistake.

love always,
-jim.

Day 2602 - In Regards to a Blog Post By One James Hart

Hello everyone,

So James wrote a blog concerning his belief that the next year will be the most important period of his writing career. I thought it basically described everything that I've been feeling lately, so I thought I would comment. But I didn't know where the comment button is on Tumblr. Thus, there is this:

Last night I had a dream that I was an astronaut on an Apollo 11. I say an Apollo 11 because it was clear to me, even in the dream, that I was not on the Apollo 11. My Apollo 11 was made out of cardboard boxes with a few holes cut in the side. (Picture the TARDIS from Dr. Who but very poorly constructed, with 'Apollo 11' written on the side in really drippy paint, and the whole thing placed on the stage of my high school auditorium).

However, the feeling of being a real Apollo 11 astronaut was definitely correct. There were press people snapping photos of me as I entered the ship. Everything was sepia toned and there was some very epic music in the background--violins, drums, perhaps the occasional trumpet blast. It was all very... historically significant-ish. And right as the music reached its loudest, and the rockets ignited, and I could feel the thrust of acceleration pressing me backward into my seat--my cell phone rang.

For some reason, I had decided to bring my cell phone on Apollo 11--despite the stringent regulations about sterilization, and payload weight, and incorrect chronological time period. And instead of thinking, 'now is not the time!' I immediately thought, 'I should answer this. It could be a grad school. I wouldn't want to miss that.'

The call was muffled but still audible over the sound of the rocket engines. The sepia tones were gone now, and we were rocketing through bright greens and blues--sky and trees.

"Mr. Taggart, this is John James Williams." His voice was raspy and far away--like he was in a call center. I imagined him eating cold teriyaki chicken with rice from a Tupperware container as he stared at a computer screen. He pulled his headset away from his mouth so he wouldn't hit it with his fork.

"Hi?" I said.

"I was calling to process payment for your order."

"Uh," I said, trying to remember what it was that I had ordered. Apollo 11 was getting lower, blasting down city streets, through labyrinths of red brick buildings. "Sure, no problem."

"For the chocolate you ordered."

"Yes," I said, "chocolate." I watched out the window as Apollo 11 traveled past a fire hydrant. "Do you have an email address that I could...uh, send that, um...to?"

His email was JohnJamesWilliams @ Ambien.net, which I later thought was interesting since I was, after all, sleeping when he gave it to me. I told John James Williams that I would email him as soon as I got the chance.

Despite the fact that I was was both on Apollo 11 and about to receive a shipment of Ambien-laced chocolate (both exciting prospects), I was annoyed that John James Williams wasn't a graduate school representative.

When I woke up, I thought that perhaps my priorities were off.

I think that it's time that I get back to focusing on writing--not on waiting for grad phone calls. John James Williams was trying to tell me something, I think.

Therefore, at the behest of James Hart and John James Williams, I am going to declare the next year as "The Most Important Period of My Writing Career." Beginning on the day after my graduation (i.e. May 15), I will write at least one hour every weekday with the goal of completing one story a week. Each month, I will send at least one story out to be considered for publication.

And I will document the process on the blog.

As James' blog would say, it's time to distribute or dissipate.

Love always,
-jim.

Day 2576 - Waiting.

Hey there everybody,

Sorry about the hiatus there. I think that when you get to the point when the one metaphor you can using for your writing is vomit, it's a good time to take a break. At least a two month break. But, over the past two months I've collected my thoughts and decided that I'm going to do better. I promise. No more word vomit.

Anyway, I thought I would update you on what has been going on in my life lately.

The other day when I was in the shower, I discovered a freckle on the bottom of my foot that I had never noticed before. I have been wondering how long its been there all week. It seems strange that after 22 years you can still be suprised by those sorts of things.

I have been checking the MFA blog compulsively this week, trying to figure out when I will finally start getting responses from schools. Then I checked the mailbox about 15 times yesterday while telling myself that "the mailman just hasn't come yet. He's late today." I checked until about 10PM, when I assumed that I had no mail that day.

I keep picturing my mailbox full of envelopes--all the same size, crisp, neatly stacked, (embossed perhaps?). Probably not embossed. It reminds me of when I was in high school and Austin and I spent Physics classes talking about what it would be like if abstract concepts had mass. For example, you would need a big team of burly dudes to carry your calculus book because the sheer weight of all the theories would make it practically unliftable. Once you got the book in your backpack, it would just tear through the bottom. For some reason I just keep thinking that once my grad notifications arrive, my mailbox will buckle underneath them and crumple before falling off the wall.


I'll hopefully be posting results soon. Also, buying a new mailbox.


love always,
-jim.

Day 2508 - Word Vomit

Hey there internet,

I'm working on my Nonfiction portfolio right now, and I find that I have hit a wall. I need to have 24-30 pages written by Thursday and I currently have 13.

Discouraging.

Thus, I have decided, at the urging of my loudly vocal friend Sunshine, that I should just try to write quickly in an attempt to get all the crappy writing out in one fell swoop.

Word Vomit.

Like a luke-warm puddle of bile, my non-fiction will flow out--not always smoothly, there will always be the unavoidable chunks, pineapple perhaps--but quickly, always quickly, constantly spewing. Then I can go through all the puddles and pick out the bits that are usable. The rest will sit, steaming in the hot sun, until a man with a blue jumpsuit and a mustache comes and covers it with sawdust.

That is how it will be done. An eloquent idea, loudly vocal Sunshine. Eloquent indeed.

So, here is the word vomit for the two essays I have thus far:

Essay #1 - "Smart Ass"

This essay is about when I was in second grade and my school librarian called me a smart ass. By doing this, she unknowingly impacted the narrative arc of my life, nearly forcing me into a career path where I would end up a mechanical engineer.

So far, there are a few scenes detailing my need for acceptance--mainly in the form of parent teacher conferences--and I also talk about one time when I picked my nose in Mrs. Weber's class. Then the pacing shifts a lot, and we go through high school and college in a blur before reaching a half-baked conclusion where I anti-climatically reveal that I have now become a creative writing major.

That's what it's about. Let's word vomit a little bit to see what else it's about, shall we? For this word vomit, I will take on the role of my internal editor--a shorter, older, bespectacled version of myself--who often critiques my writing as I write it.

Internal Editor:

Jim, after reading this piece, I must say that I am fairly confused. The idea is to be ironic, is it not? We see your uncomfortable moment with the potty-mouthed librarian and the resulting turn away from literature. Then, at the end, you spring it on us that, oh dear, you're becoming a writer.

But, the climax of the story is the part that you skip--those awkward in-between years when you come to the realization that the librarian's comment showed you the power of language. After you realize this, you can get all sentimental about the impact that words can have and talk about that for a while. Once the reader begins to cry--both from the beauty of your sentiment and also from its terribly cliched telling--you can hit them with the punchline: you now consider becoming a librarian! Often! That's the overarching, stuck-up back-story that you need to hide underneath the story about picking your nose.

Yep. That's what the story is really about. Looks like I'll have to spew out a few overly cliched scenes about the real meaning of words and then go from there.

Essay #2 - "Furnished"

This essay, despite its disappointing title, is the one that I like most.

The essay details the furniture that I have owned--starting with my dad's large leather chair, continuing to a scene of the furniture store where I had my first kiss, then a quick little section about my filing cabinet, and then--booyah--cap it all off with buying a queen size bed. The underlying psychological idea is that as I accrue things--like furniture--I also lose things--like childhood. Or something like that.

So, let's get the cliched parts out first for you to suffer through, dear blog reader:

We all grow up and gain responsibilities, which both free us and tie us down. Something about furniture.

That ought to do it. All the worst aspects, regurgitated here, for you. They are all out of the way, and we can move on to the parts that are worth reading.



Maybe some day I'll actually post the good parts on the blog. That would make more sense. An entire post about vomit seems counter-intuitive.

Oh well.

love always,
-jim.

Day 2502 - My Horoscope

Hey there Internet,

It's been a while since I last [jim]b[o]logged. Sorry. In all honesty, I've been trying to catch up for the last few days but have been seriously lacking some motivation.

So today I started reading my horoscope. Which is not something that I ever do, but I did today, because I have been seriously lacking some motivation. I assumed that a horoscope would be just cryptic enough to spark some sort of creative impulse in my brain. I needed some sort of cosmic intervention or divine providence to get moving again.

Here is what the horoscope said:

"Everything gets accomplished that you need to do today. Oddly, your enthusiasm isn't as important as consistent effort."

Great, I thought, that's good news. Let's get to accomplishing some things. Let's get to accomplishing "Day 2502 - My Horoscope." That'll be nice. As the synapses in my brain began to fire in rapid succession--tiny lightning storms of thought--I began to feel like it was finally time to get back on the horse. It was time to blog after a decent 33 day hiatus. I'm gonna make it world! I thought. Or something along those lines.

But that wasn't the end of the horoscope. There was one more sentence:

"Tease others into compliance."

Needless to say, this sentence pretty much derailed my train of thought. "Tease others into compliance." I suddenly wasn't thinking about my day--I was thinking, who the crap writes horoscopes?

Well don't you worry friends, Stephanie Clement has been certified by the American Federation of Astrologers. The astologers-online website I found said that "Stephanie’s counseling focuses on the creative potential within each of us. . . Stephanie helps to put you in touch with your personal power to create the life and relationships you desire." The website didn't mention that my personal power to create the life and relationships I desire is to "tease others into compliance," but we'll let that slide.

I looked at the other horoscopes to see if they said anything similar. Others said things like, "expenses may fall into line as you refine goals" or "acknowledge those you love" or "allow for both viewpoints." I am the only one who is supposed to make fun of people until I get my way.

Thus, today I have established a new creedo. I will not falter. I will not be discouraged. I will accomplish what I need to do today.

And if you get in my way, I'm definitely going to tease the crap out of you.

love always,

-jim.

Day 2469 - This is the Worst Birthday Ever

Whenever something bad happens I don't say, "sometimes bad things happen to good people," or "everything happens for a reason." I think these responses are fairly overused. Instead I say, "this is the worst birthday ever!" Because no matter how bad something is, it would be inevitably worse if it happened on your birthday.

An unexpected cold front causes the pipes from the sprinkler system to explode, and I must stand in a spurt of freezing water to turn the system off--"This is the worst birthday ever."

The RamSkellar takes 45 minutes just to make my fish and chips.--"This is the worst birthday ever."

I develop an allergy to birthday cake of all varieties.--"This is the worst birthday ever."

I find that it is best to claim that I'm having "the worst birthday ever" with a slightly whiny voice, as if I've just been punched in the face. Often it can be very effective to use this phrase around people who do not actually know when my birthday is. Strangers help me with things because they want me to have a good birthday, or even a mediocre birthday--but certainly not "the worst birthday ever."

However, Monday was my actual birthday, and I made the mistake of saying, "this is the worst birthday ever." It seems to have a much different meaning when it's actually my birthday.

Sorry about that. Just to clarify--Monday was not the worst birthday ever, I was just upset that I stubbed my toe.

love always,
-jim.

P.S. I've noticed that for every blog in which I mention the GRE, I get a comment from a guy named "pro," saying that he "likes my writing way" and suggesting that I go to a GRE prep website. I am fairly certain that he is a robot, but I wanted to test. So I will close the blog by saying this: GRE GRE GRE GRE!

Day 2454 - Backup Plan

Hello there Internet,

As you probably know, I have been searching for grad schools lately--perusing university websites, taking the GRE, brooding over personal statements--and I have realized that I have no backup plan. If this grad school thing doesn't work out, I have no alternatives.

My biggest fear is that I will end up working in a fast food restaurant. I may be that guy that works the fryer at Wendy's or perhaps the mulleted man behind the register at Arby's. My talents at applying cheese to hamburgers may prove necessary when I work with Ronaldo, the heavy-set fellow who consistantly shuffles around the kitchen of McDonalds humming the theme song to The A Team.

The potential for this future seems to increase every time I think about graduate school. I've even heard that King Wienie, the hot dog stand near my house, may be hiring.

I will do anything to avoid this future.

So, in the spirit of avoiding working in a drive thru, this blog will cover my new life backup plan.
Whether I go to grad school or not, I want to have an exciting life. I would like to have a creative outlet in my work. Also, I would like to go to my high school reunion and feel like I'm too good to be there. Thus, I have begun a search for a backup plan that will help me accomplish these goals. I drove around town the other day, searching for inspiration.

I thought for a while before it finally came to me. I was driving by the Aggie Theatre and read the marquee: 10/6 Melvins, 10/7 Mamosa, 10/8 Cornbread, 10/9 Helmet.

All those band names have fairly decent qualities, I thought. Brevity. Obscure names. Food references. Helmet. However, a really great band would combine all the good things about these names. A band like that would be a force to be reckoned with. Perhaps the best band ever. Why has nobody made that band?

That is when it hit me. My backup plan. The course I would take to avoid the drive thru. It was so simple.

I'm starting a band. Melvin's Mamosa Cornbread Helmet. I think we'll probably play 1920's radio hour type music, with occasional interventions of noir style romances.

Just you wait, world. It's going to be big.

Backup plan officially established.

Love always,
-jim.

Day 2448 - An Amazing Breakthrough

Great news internet!

In my search for grad schools I found one that has no application fee. It also doesn't require that I take the GRE. It pays a stipend of $10,650 per year to any student admitted without requiring students to have assistantships. It has a full tuition waiver for all MFA students. And perhaps best of all, it was definitely started by a robber baron.

Also, after going there, you come out looking like this:



That's right folks! It's Vanderbilt University in lovely Nashville, Tennessee!

And despite the University's reputation as an intelligent institution, they are willing to pay me money to write stories about boys ripping off piano teachers' wigs and creamated remains being sucked through infomercial products! (For those of you who don't read my stories--those are totally real).

So that's the new development of the day.

Also, I had a nice bread bowl for lunch.

Love always,
-jim.

Update: They actually do require the GRE.

Day 2447 - My Day At the Dentist

Dear Internet,

There are very few things in the world that I enjoy less than the dentist. When compared to the dentist, I am likely to give favorable review to nearly anything. Being bitten by a chimpanzee is better than the dentist. Having your boot come off when you are walking through deep mud is better than the dentist. I would be glad to iron my shirt while I was wearing it instead of going to the dentist. Dentists are located at the very, very bottom of my list of enjoyable things. They are just under Fascists, Dictators, Warlords, Drug Cartels, and Alien Overlords. Also cats.

The reason I dislike dentists is that a dentist has the ability to make you feel like you are four years old. Even if you are almost twenty-two and have a nice beard coming in, you are four years old. You feel small, and unimportant, and as though you have just been placed in time-out.

This is because every dentist on the planet is a master of scolding.

It takes about six years of schooling for a person to become a dentist. Two of these years cover dental procedures such as placing fillings, shining bright lights in the patient's eyes, and using that suction tube thing. Also metal hooks.

The next four years are exclusively dedicated to lessons on scolding. Most dentists start this part of their education with some sort of introductory course--like "You Need to Brush More 101" or "Have You Even Heard of Floss? 130." These initial courses cover the basics that will make all patients feel like they should go sit in the corner and think about what they've done.

Once this foundation is layed, dentists move up to more difficult course work. My dentist definitely took "I Bet You Drink a Lot of Soda 472" and excelled in "If Flossing Were an Easy Habit, I'd Be Out of a Job 502."
(Note: It is this point in a dentist's career when he or she begins to develop a mastery of awkward handshakes and smiling too widely.)

With this background in mind, I am now home from the dentist--feeling defeated and troubled. Despite the fact that I am almost twenty-two and have a nice beard coming in, I am four years old.

Love always,
-jim.

Day 2442 - My Future Life

Hey there internet,

Today's blog is called "My Future Life" and will concern the following topics: 1) Tetris/Russian History, 2) Bottle Openers, 3) My Future Life.


Section One;
Tetris/Russian History



Section Two;
Bottle Openers

I was walking through the student center today, and I found a bottle opener that is shaped like a duck. At first I was extremely happy about it; Lindsay just got a bottle opener shaped like a bicycle and her coolness level went up by like a thousand. This puts a fairly big discrepancy in our boyfriend/girlfriend coolness ratio, since my coolness level normally hovers around 250. To fix this I thought that a duck bottle opener was just the boost I needed.

Imagine:
People would walk up to me and say, "Can you open my beer?"

And I'd bust out the duck and be like, "Quacktacular!"

And then I'd open their beer and they'd laugh and say something like, "We should be friends! Would you like to go for a ride in my rocketship?"

Or at least that was the plan.

But the more I looked at my little duck friend, the more I started to get disappointed. First of all, the key ring goes straight through the little guy's eye. Imagine being carried around by a giant hook that goes directly through your eye. You are completely blind. You're suffering terribly. Then someone walks up to you and says, "Can you open my beer?"

I find it highly unlikely that you will respond, "Quacktacular!"

Blind ducks do not start friendships.

Section Three;
My Future Life

I've spent the last few weeks searching for grad schools. I've found programs that I like all over the country--Washington, California, Colorado, Texas, Iowa, Michigan, and New York. And I've decided that I am going wherever can offer me the most money to go there. There are a few other factors, but that's the bottom line. I need to go where I can afford to go.

What this means is that I could be almost anywhere next year. And I'm starting to think that next year is the beginning of My Future Life.

My Future Life could be almost anywhere.

That makes things very difficult to plan. Pretty much all I can be sure of is the fact that I don't think I'm keeping this duck bottle opener.


love always,
-jim.

Day 2432 - In Soviet Russia, Piñata Hits You!

Hey there Internet,

I wanted to let you know that I went to a party today. Like a real party. Not that all the other parties I've been to weren't real. (In fact, I went to a birthday party for my friend Sam Spudnik this weekend that was quite enjoyable--we sang happy birthday and everything).

It's just that all those other parties seemed to be lacking something. They somehow didn't have that quintessential element. In my head I thought, "this is a party," but in my heart I thought, "this doesn't seem to be leading towards any sort of thematic climax." And maybe not all parties need that. But some parties do.

Today I went to a party that had everything. Today I went to a party that had a piñata.

I think the best thing about a piñata is not even the actual piñata. The best thing about a piñata is watching a blindfolded person swing a bat while everyone else at the party tries to stand as far away from the piñata as possible. Everybody is plotting the trajectory that the piñata will take if the batter manages to hit it off of the string.

The best parties, in my opinion, have piñata trajectories that head straight towards the bowl of punch, or into something expensive, or at the crotch of an important person. There's your thematic climax everybody.

I ate about ten Pixy Stix, and my tongue turned blue. It was a nice party.

Love always,
-jim.

Day 2425 - Moved

So it's official. I've moved.

This is "the [jim]b[o]log" version 2.0. Welcome.


Here's post #1:


Hey there Internet,

I'm feeling pretty bored today, so I thought I would undergo a massive life change and move my blog over from ye olde Xanga to a completely new place filled with uncertainty and doubt. So that's been cool.

In other news, it's becoming more and more evident that I am getting close to the end of my college career and the beginning of the real world. I am a senior. Get your caps and gowns folks, because we're in the home stretch and all bets are off. Congrats Grad! Alumni Association Bumper Sticker! "Oh the Places You'll Go!" Framed diploma!

I am afraid that there is only one job out there for someone with a B.A. in Creative Writing (and Liz Sandifer takes that one job on Wednesday).

It's time to decide what I'm going to do.

Thus here is the GRE word of the day:

Ameliorate
(verb)
to make better, to improve

"Jim enrolled in a karate class, hoping to ameliorate his chances of getting that stunt-double job."

That's right folks. We're headed for grad school. It's written in the blog and that makes it a fact.

New life path officially starts . . . NOW!

love always,

-jim.

Day 2374 - How to Make More Money Than Your Parents

Great news everybody!

So, I'm at home in Littleton and my dad just told me about a book he heard about called How to Make More Money Than Your Parents. And apparently this book talks a lot about some new sort of technology called blogging . . . or maybe it's blegging? I hope I'm saying that right.

Anyway, I'll fill you all in about blugging, just in case you haven't heard yet. So here we go. . .

Apparently you just get on a computer and write stuff. Just any old thing that you feel like writing about. Any person can just write their thoughts and call it a blag. There are bligs about cooking, and about hockey, and about crafts. I even read one blyg that was just a guy ranting to this history textbook author that he really didn't like.

But anyway, the book says that just writing down all your thoughts in a blag can make you a lot of money.

Which brings me to my next point--You all owe me five bucks.

thanks,

-jim.