Sitting in the dimly-lit Dolores Del Rio restaurant along the Riverwalk on a Wednesday night, I found myself completely immersed in complacency.
Upbeat jazz music surged every corner of the quaint establishment as couples gazed longingly into one another’s eyes over deep dishes of Rigatoni and Pesto Gnocci.
It has come to my realization as of, oh, 10 seconds ago that I’ve been strutting around all afternoon with my lens cap in the back pocket of my jeans, creating a prominent circle on my buttocks.
Exhibit A: The Tobacck Pocket.
For those of you who may have ran across me today, or perhaps were, for some godforsaken reason gandering at my hind quarters during this event, I’d like to elucidate on several points:
a) I am not, nor will ever be a tobacco chewer. This I know.
II) Just because you may or may not have witnessed me purchasing a can of spearmint Skoal longcut for an underage acquaintance back in 2006 ONCE does not make your case against me just. Trust me, the looks I received during that purchase were enough to keep me away from tobacco for LIFE.
3) Even if I did attempt to purchase tobacco again, despite presenting proper identification I still do not believe that they’d sell it to me based on my severe lacking of height and/or evidence that I look like I’m 12.
With that, I will cease to defend my nicotine sobriety and rest my case. I shall remove the lens cap from my pocket and carry on as if none of this ever occured.
happy trails — !
jc
YOU WON’T HEAR FROM ME for a little while, as I’m leaving for my spring break excursion in a mere 7 hours.
NANCY HANSON NEVER KNEW WHAT WAS BEST FOR ME. She never will.
Bless her soul, really. Each day I meander into her classroom, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and somewhat insightful of what media scuttlebutt she’ll apprise.
This is the woman who croons at the mention of felines (I’m almost certain she’s got 14 or 15), spends her nights and weekends watching the Discovery Health Channel with her husband (and cats — perhaps they are, in fact, one and the same), and scours any form of information medium in search of steaming hot piles of communiqué hearsay. This, my friends, is the life that I have always envisioned Nancy Hanson leading.
I’ve got beef with Nancy Hanson, though I’m sure she’d partially disagree. She’s on an undertaking to turn me into a media journalist, a profession that I entirely loathe. Her class is 59 minutes of Associated Press boot camp in the form of worksheets and conditioning, as she utilizes the common propaganda technique of “simplify and repeat”:
“COMMAS! Always come in pairs! They’re WIMPY! WIMPY, WIMPY, WIMPY commas!”
I know I will never forget the phrase, “wimpy commas” as she has engraved it into my memory. Wimpy commas, however, are the least of my concerns with Nancy Hanson. More specifically, her grand scheme is none other than taking an axe to my compositions and chopping down the tree of what I’m certain she would refer to as an “unnecessary and redundant journalist”, respectively. Ha-rumph.
She will take a mere run through of the most exquisite and polished pieces of work, and in hasty discontent shake her head while countering, “It’s just not the AP way.” Nancy Hanson is what the prisoners of the mass communications department (namely my English major friend and I) like to refer to as “so AP”.
Nancy Hanson is trying to coax me to hate adjectives.
The thought makes me distraught. I furiously listened to her refer to them as mere “fluff” in writing, essentially pointless filler words with no direction nor purpose. This upsets me, because I find adjectives rather groovy.
You could say I’m a little strange, talking about words like this, but I’ve come to the realization that words aren’t just words to me — they’re pure art. Words, and text, letters and fonts; their curves, sounds and compositions are so appealing to me in the most curious of ways. I’ll never understand such a strange fixation, but I completely don’t disagree with it. And adjectives, well — I find those to add quite the zest to the ordinary.
She can’t take them from me, she can’t make me. I won’t. Nancy Hanson, dearest Nancy: your intentions of making me into the media correspondent you dreamed of may never prevail. I might suggest that you take your gabbling and rules about commas and media fluff to perhaps your feline companions who are more apt to listen and follow them.
I made up my mind today: I’m going to Texas.
The decision came upon the realization that I have ceased to find an opportunity to make cash over Spring Break. Minot is nice, basking in all of its Super WalMart and mistreated historical buildings glory (which, I find seems to make me increasingly angry each time I see a new parking lot in place of an old establishment), but I just can’t imagine ten consecutive days of it. My road trip south will be a good opportunity to meet new people, learn more about myself, and photograph my adventures while living off a steady diet of PopTarts and Welch’s grape juice. Plus, as a completely random side note, I had one of the best sleeps of my life during last year’s trip, on a gym floor in Rockford, IL. Don’t ask how, but dang! Those were some incredible Z’s.
[Random awkward moment, followed by a change in subject]
I was kicking myself today after I forget my iPod when I went to the gym. Certainly I can move my appendages without tunes, but dangit if Lady Sovereign and Daft Punk aren’t motivation. Nothing helps me bench 100 pounds quite like “Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger” blaring in my ears! Later on, while toughing out the “random” mode on the cycle, I conveniently positioned myself in front of the television that was tuned into the movie “Ray“. I like Ray Charles, he’s an all right fella, and when forced to decide between viewing his story or watching Tim Allen run around with tribespeople in 1997’s blockbuster “Jungle 2 Jungle” (playing on the opposite television) — I’ll choose Mr. Charles any day.
Settled in and on minute eight, Ray’s just begun his drug use and things are getting pretty engrossing. From the weight lifting area approaches Studmuffin McMacho*, who conveniently positions himself on the treadmill to my left.
Studmuffin has, unbeknownst to his wavy-locked, toned-calf self, jumped on a defunct treadmill. I know this because I enjoy watching people hop on this treadmill time and time again, only to find out after six minutes of pressing buttons that it’s busted; he doesn’t know this because, well, obviously his beefy head has been back in the “Beef Zone” (self-proclaimed) working on his “Which way to da beach?” flex pose for spring break.
After about four minutes of pressing buttons, McMacho is trying to keep his cool and not make it apparent to me that he’s unable to fix the machine. Unfortunately for him, I am a treadmill connoisseur and totally know what the dealie-o is. Busted. At long last he smoothly withdraws from the machine, and in an attempt to make it look like he was actually DOING SOMETHING in the general vicinity, went straight up to the television which was educating me on the life and achievements of Mr. Ray Charles and changed. The. Channel.
OH! SNAP!
Now CLEARLY — emphasis — CLEARLY I was viewing the program on this television. Believe me, I was not staring up in the direction of the TV and watching the wall. What was worse, not only did he change the channel, but he changed it to something that, even if you dangled a bag of Double-Stuf Oreos or a photograph of a shirtless Matthew McConnaughey near the screen, I probably still wouldn’t watch: Basketball.
I don’t know if I’ve made my views on sports coherent. If not, I will right now. You see, I’ve lovingly graced one too many benches, played on one too many “B” teams, seen my share of JV days. I tried, and I was true — but with all do respect to the retired athlete that is banging her head against a wall somewhere in the depths of my soul: you sucked. I’m sorry.
I can live knowing that I wasn’t ample enough to be first-string, or that the reason Coach played me in center field was because no lady on any opposing team hit there. And you and I both know that I was like fine wine riding the pine pony, aging a little bit to get just right before tossing me into the volleyball game and hitting the opponent like a WMD. There’s a reason why they called my position “Defensive Specialist” and my epithet was “Secret Weapon #11” (my number). My day rarely came.
Thus, bitter feelings for sports ensued. I have found far greater talents, including my abilities to gracefully walk in high heels, imitate scenes from “A Night at the Roxbury“, and finally, polish off four cans of hairspray in a fortnight. Impressive.
Studmuffin slinked over to another treadmill down the row and carried out his machoness in front of a different television, one that was broadcasting the same game that he had changed “Ray” to. Meanwhile, I played through a list of possible in responses in my head if, in fact, he would have asked me if it was all right that he change the channel:
1] “Awww HAAAAAAALLLL naw!”
2] “Do I look like a tool to you?”
C] “Let me consult with my cycle on this one….NO.”
iv] “You’d rather watch basketball than Ray Charles using hard drugs? What?”
Through less than amused eyes I watched about two minutes of the game, before I could no longer bear the agony. Departing from my machine, I made a distinct effort to glare in McMacho’s direction. He probably just thought I thought he was a steaming pile of burning love. Blech.
That concludes today’s developments in the life and times of JMC, although today certainly would not have been complete without the formation of new tastebuds for Oreo Cakesters.
Signing off,
jc
*Good looking, but totally not my type.
It’s been a while. Well, in reality only several days but when the thoughts build up in your mind and writing is much like your trash compactor for the overflow of words that have accumulated over several days, then friends, I am in dire need of taking out the trash, so to speak.
Tonight I saw a SPEC-TACULAR (no pun intended) speaker on campus, Chuck Klosterman. What an intelligent and insightful dude, not to mention humorous! Cool. He made me want to write, and think, and write, and keep doing what I gotta do (whatever that is, but I guess I’ll find out). I’ll be honest, I’ve never read any of his works but I plan on purchasing Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs as well as his other books on the double.
That said, there really isn’t much else that I can elaborate on tonight other than how I went to Barnes & Noble today, bought an awesome book, and feel complete. Cool!
Now, back to you.
xo
jc
Tuesday.
I’d been secretly dreading this day for weeks, perhaps semesters, though it doesn’t truly hit you until 3am the night before the day of trepidation.
Public speaking is not exactly one of my natural dexterities. I can look at myself in the mirror for hours, training my facial expressions, choreographing hand gestures and perfecting my tone until all is smooth and ideal. I can be confident, collected, and completely convincing. I can do anything in front the mirror, because the only person I have to disappoint is myself. The only person who does or does not laugh at my strange humor is me, the only person who listens to the banter and finds it their will to accept it – me. I really can be invincible sometimes.
Suddenly I am pulled away from the placating mirror and hurled into a frightening classroom, fixated in utter panic at the front of a room of less-than-receptive spectators. A podium is all that shields me from the sting of their eyes, perhaps the only confine that is keeping me in the room. Four crinkled note cards are muddled from hand to hand and receive the bulk of my anxiety.
No deep breath can fix this.
I begin, but stop short once, twice, a hundred times. I reiterate in my mind, it’s all right, it’s okay, everything’s just fine. I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful. Everything’s fine. You can say these things. You can say them again, and again and again until the words are threadless and diminished by wear.
It doesn’t mean that you’ll believe them.
It would be nice to just let go and forget that anyone had opinions or judgements for those six minutes. Seeing an audience of plastic bodies would be all the more comforting than the breathing individuals that sat before me.
I wonder just what it is that frightens me so about these circumstances. In a school of nearly 8,000 students, what is it to me if 25 of them think I’m crazy? Simply 25 more people that think I’m crazy; no more, no less.
I can totally live with that.
Agitated,
jc
PS: For lack of newer images, I am reposting old ones. Apologies for the shortage of contemporary.
I MADE A CONSCIOUS EFFORT TODAY to meet new people.
The outcome wasn’t as successful as I’d hoped. I plunked down in a seat next to a girl in my photography class that I’d always wanted to meet. I’d recognized her from a restaurant I once ate dinner at, and thought to use that as a conversation starter.
So I asked, and she responded with several comments to my questions, mainly how tired she was of school and how hopelessly close it felt she was to finishing. End of conversation. Moving on.
The next class period was much the same. I found myself seated next to a pair of young men, both uncertain of how to connect to the server and turn in the due assignment to the Hand-In folder. Since I know a thing or two about these things (shamelessly, yes), I thought maybe I’d wiggle my way into their conversing and extend my knowledge to help them get their assignments turned in.
“A-a-are you trying to connect to the server?” I finally spoke up after a minute of painfully watching them search without a clue for some big, red, prominent “CONNECT TO SERVER” button, a button that in fact, doesn’t exist. They didn’t know this.
“Chyeah,” says one dude.
In a swift sentence I instructed them, and received the standard “Ohhhh…I knew that” response.
“Thanks.”
I thought afterwards that maybe, just maybe they’d look to me for more help if they needed it, or at least want to converse. Maybe ask me where I was from, what was my zodiac sign, what was my biz-nass. Perhaps all of the above.
But nothing! Not even the slightest nod in my direction. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t somewhat put off by the whole scenario, and even as I attempted to speak to them once again they glanced at me with a painful look of despair and carried on with their jabber about video game forums and comic books, probably.
It was a conscious effort, however unsuccessful.
And one more thing. You know in the movies when you see the teenage valley girls, and one girl has just told another something of absolute shock, to which the other replies:
“SHAUT. UP.”
Well, I always thought this was a dramatization and that no real woman speaks in this manner. Until today. Girls that use this phrase really do exist.
That, friends, is a slice of Monday.
Until next time,
jc
approximatelyes.com 
