### working class zero ###

Endless Summer

2007-07-01T22:28:00.000-07:00

Sometime between 11:00 and noon: I wake up and walk Jackson and Chesme, the two adolescent, fully-grown large-breed dogs I now live with in this cramped one-bedroom apartment. No time for me to empty my aching bladder. I can't get up at night to use the bathroom, or else Jackson will cry and howl in his crate. "Geez, I'll be back in a minute..." I say to him. He doesn't understand; he drools, whines, and chews at the wires on his crate until I return, waking up the whole neighborhood. He's lived in a shelter his whole life and fears being left alone in a metal cage, even for a minute. He isn't house-trained either, and the second I let him out of the crate, if I don't walk him immediately, he'll piss all over the floor.

Fifteen minutes later: I return to apartment #36, and grab a couple more black plastic bags marked Dogipot from the dispenser and throw the bag of dog feces in the specially-marked trash can.

1pm: I take a shower, making sure to lock Jackson in his crate, and blocking Chesme from the kitchen with a makeshift divider so she can't chew up anything while my back is turned. Chesme already chewed up my eyeglasses, and now everything looks out of focus. San Diego is a blurry paradise, thanks to these dogs. "I can't say I didn't warn ya," my sister Sarah says on the phone. "Books, DVDs, anything she can get she'll chew up if you aren't careful. She won't do it when you're around, but when you leave, she will. She's so cute, she 'my Princess!" Sarah says on the phone.

1:20: I get out of the shower, and change clothes. I check to make sure Chesme hasn't chewed up anything I forgot to keep from her, then clean up Chesme's poop on the patio. "It's OK if she pees and poops out here. She doesn't poop outside, just here, so we put some newspapers down. Make sure you change the papers each day," says Sarah again. Then I let Jackson out of the crate and take him for a quick walk to relieve himself, but instead he's too distracted by all the new smells and dogs playing in the park, and tugs constantly at his leash. I get frustrated, and bring him back home after he's marked a few spots. Minutes later, I watch him piss all over the carpet and scream, "I just let you out ten minutes ago!"

1:30: I check my email and look on craigslist.org for a job. No corporate gigs. Preferably something that allows me to express myself. A high-paying entry-level writing gig would sure be nice. Screw the required published 'clips' each employer demands. I don't need to prove I can write. Right?

2:00: I take the dogs to the nearby dog park. I take them off their leash, only to separate the incorrigible pups from the poor dogs and their owners foolish enough to be at the dog park at the same time as these uncontrollable canines, before blood is drawn. "Oh, their just playing. They're so friendly, aren't they?" Sarah says, before she left us alone with these dogs to go be a counselor at a Christian camp in the nearby mountains for the summer.

2:30: Holly's always home, so I let the dogs off the leash and let them try to kill each other, or "play," as Sarah calls it, while Holly reads a book on the couch. "Stop it. No really, stop killing each other. No...Stop." Holly says listlessly, not looking up from her latest Chuck Palahniuk novel. I change into swimming trunks, and go to the pool near the front office. I read for an hour and work on my farmer tan, which usually results in a painful blotchy sunburn. Then I swim ten laps (on a good day), bob up and down in the water, do a few water aerobics, sit in the hot tub for five to ten minutes, and finally do an hour of writing.

6:00: I come home to Holly taking a nap, or still reading her book. I take the dogs for a walk, after asking Holly how many accidents the dogs had and how many times she walked them. "Yeah, I walked 'em once but then Jackson peed on the carpet when I got back. Jackson, you're such an asshole." Asshole, that's Holly's nickname for Jackson. She's right, but I should probably buy her a thesaurus.

6:30: I eat dinner, feed the dogs, and take them out for another unproductive walk.

7:00: Returning home, I discover Chesme chewed up something else she wasn't supposed to, and step in wet dog piss on the carpet.

7-11:00: I browse the web, think about posting to my blog, or go back to the pool. Or, if I'm really bored, watch one of the two stations on TV Sarah gets via the old-fashioned rabbit ears.

11:00-?: I look at craigslist.org for free stuff and a cheap, one bedroom apartment before going to sleep, some time after midnight.

This has been my life, for the past couple of weeks. I still don't have a job, and I used up all my money I earned before moving out here for rent, so tomorrow I'll have to find a job. I just don't want to work, and live here in southern California and appreciate "Endless Summer" and write. I guess, at the least, a job will get me out of the house and away from Holly and the hounds. I'm not a famous writer yet, so I need a day job. Wish me luck. I think I'll need it to stay sane, until Sarah and her husband return from camp at the end of summer to resume taking care of the dogs. Whenever that may be. It seems like summer here never ends...

Peace.

I won't be posting for a while...

2007-05-29T16:42:00.000-07:00

I'm at the library, on the 15-minute Email Express machine, and I have less than five minutes before I have to give up my spot to the long-haired crazy guy eyeing me. My internet and cable are shut off, since I haven't paid my bills since buying my plane tickets to San Diego, so I have to rely on the free internet available at the library.

Long story short, I probably won't update this blog until after June 13, the day I fly to San Diego to start my new career as a writer. Just to let you know.

Ok, the guy is hovering over my left shoulder. I should probably sign out now...

Peace.

Going to California

2007-05-16T21:54:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven't written in a while. I've been busy daydreaming about California. Today I turned in my letter of resignation, and effective June 13, I'll be living in San Diego (La Jolla, to be exact) for at least the next three months to house-sit my youngest sister and her husbands' place while they do some missionary work at some camp somewhere.

I hope the move is permanent, since I've lived in Iowa my whole life. I'm anxious to see a different world, to live in paradise, the "Beverly Hills of San Diego," according to a new gal at work who just transferred from Oceanside. I'm going through the contents of my apartment right now, trying to see what I want to take with me on the plane. Right now I wish I had an ipod and a laptop; that's all I need, is my music and my writing. All I want to take with me are a weeks worth of clothes--no need for my sweaters, hats, winter coats, and mittens anymore--and the contents of my hard drive, my digital camera, and voice recorder. That's all I need to start a new life in California. Everything else in my apartment, my couch, my tv, my dvd's, mean nothing to me, and can all be purchased again someday. I'm trying to think of a way I can ship my box of old writing from my childhood media mail to my new place. I originally thought I'd put everything in storage until I found my own place in California, but I want to sever all ties to Iowa right now and make a fresh start.

I'm excited to meet an entirely new group of people who have no knowledge, no stereotype of who this "Jonathan Nauman" guy is supposed to be. I'm anxious to try something new. I don't want to have to play the stupid kid from Iowa anymore so I don't get beaten up. I want to live up to my full potential. To find other smart people who understand me. I want to go somewhere where my intelligence is an asset, not a liability. "This is our chance to reinvent ourselves," I say to my younger sister Holly who is coming with me for support while I find my new life in California. "This is our time to be who we really are. I've changed tremendously this last year working as a line cook--I've broken out of my shell. Goodbye Norma Jean, hello Marilyn Monroe. This is the new Lisa Simpson. You can be anything you want--anything!" I tell her.

I want to eventually move to LA and become a staff writer on some comedy show. I don't care which one. And then maybe if my ideas are as good as I think, I can write my own screenplays and pilots based on my life. The way I see it right now, I'll start out in an improv group and do open-mic stand-up nights like my mentors and heroes, Bob Odenkirk and David Cross, from my favorite show of all time, Mr. Show. I'll try to find an agent who understands my point of view, and who can best represent me, who will put me in touch with whoever I need to speak with to land a job as a staff writer. Then, after I get the staff writer job, and meet some new people who will help me script some pilots based on the ideas inside my head, if they're good enough.

When I go to California, I'm going to overhaul everything on this site. It'll be about me trying to make a name formyself in California as a comedy writer. This is going to take some time. Definitely more than three months to get famous enough to make a living, and probably more like five years or so to make enough of a name for myself in Hollywood to quit my day job. So I'll have to get a real job in La Jolla. I've already talked to management at work about transferring to the San Diego restaurant. But I don't want to be a line cook at a corporate seafood restaurant anymore, especially since San Diego is so close to the ocean. I'm sure La Jolla has some 'real' seafood restaurants that would be willing to take on an apprentice cook. I just hope my lack of culinary training doesn't stop me...

This is all I can say right now. I've written several versions, several first drafts, about me moving to California. My life is going through tremendous changes right now. I'm both scared and anxious, but mostly excited at the promise of starting a new life in San Diego. My biggest fear is that I don't apply myself, I don't at least try to live out my dreams. My fear is that I don't try any open-mic nights and end up moving back to Iowa. But Holly assures me she won't let that happen. "I've realized why I'm going with you," she says, as if she's seen the light, as if she has had some sudden realization from God, sitting and drinking at Old Chicago here in Coralville, Iowa, our favorite bar. "I'm going with you to make sure you don't fail. To make sure you don't just sit on the couch and drink beer. That you at least try. My home is here in Iowa, but I'll stay with you as long as it takes, I'll work as a server at some fancy restaurant, but you HAVE to do your stand-up. You have to try. I believe in you." And that is all I ever needed to hear. I'm going to pack my bags. I'm moving to California.

Peace.

Currently Listening to:
Led Zepplin
"Going to California"
Led Zepplin IV, 1971

Going to California

Spent my days with a woman unkind,
Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine.
Made up my mind to make a new start,
Going to california with an aching in my heart.
Someone told me theres a girl out there
With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair.
Took my chances on a big jet plane,
Never let them tell you that theyre all the same.
The sea was red and the sky was grey,
Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today.
The mountains and the canyons started to tremble and shake
As the children of the sun began to awake.
Seems that the wrath of the gods
Got a punch on the nose and it started to flow;
I think I might be sinking.
Throw me a line if I reach it in time
Ill meet you up there where the path
Runs straight and high.
To find a queen without a king;
They say she plays guitar and cries and sings.
La la la la
Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn
Tryin to find a woman whos never, never, never been born.
Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams,
Telling myself its not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.

Check out the new look!

2007-05-02T20:57:00.000-07:00

I changed up things around here, since the Capri Lodge has got new management. I think now I'm finally able to tell my personal stories, minus the usual childish soap-box rantings. Things are gonna change around here, I can feel it. On Monday, I went morel hunting with Clint and Byron, and did some male bonding. I see Byron in a completely different light--he's a really great guy. I could write a book about what I learned from Clint and Byron, who taught me how to find morels, since it was my first time. Spring has finally sprung! I'm out to do some serious soul-searching, and dig around in the dirt for more fungi. Monday, I became a man.

Peace.

Currently listening to:
Billy Preston
"Nothin' from Nothin'"
The Kids and Me, 1974

Nothin' from Nothin'

Nothin' from nothin' leaves nothin'
You gotta have somethin'
If you wanna be with me
Nothin' from nothin' leaves nothin'
You gotta have somethin'
If you wanna be with me

I'm not tryin' to be your hero
'Cause that zero is too cold for me, brrr
I'm not tryin' to be your highness
'Cause that minus is too low to see, yeah

Nothin' from nothin' leaves nothin'
And I'm not stuffin'
Believe you me
Don't you remember I told ya
I'm a soldier in the war on poverty, yeah
Yes, I am

[Instrumental Interlude]

Nothin' from nothin' leaves nothin'
You gotta have somethin'
If you wanna be with me
Nothin' from nothin' leaves nothin'
You gotta have somethin'
If you wanna be with me

You gotta have somethin'
If you wanna be with me
You gotta bring me somethin' girl
If you wanna be with me

Nash Equilibrium for restaurant management

2007-04-09T02:18:00.000-07:00

I'm trying to work out the Nash equilibrium for the restaurant, and all restaurants, for that matter. But I'm not a mathematician; the highest math class I took was Calc II, and I don't remember much. I just know there must be a win-win-win-win situation, a Nash equilibrium, that allows the guests, managers, servers, and cooks to be happy.

It's like a dot-to-dot puzzle. I don't know the algorithm for connecting the dots, but I can tell the image is that of, say, a bunny. I don't know in real-life terms what needs to be done to reach a Nash equilibrium since I don't have enough formal education in game theory, but I have seen A Beautiful Mind several times. I'm tired and Wikipedia is looking like a bunch of dots to me right now, but I can see the image roughly forming in my mind's eye. It's slowly taking shape. Much like how John Nash sees formulas starting to form.

We need to seat fewer guests at a time. There is some magic number, some number relative to how many servers, cooks, open tables, and maybe some other variable that I can't see right now which determines how many guests we should seat at a time. Basically what I am saying is, we shouldn't seat everyone at once. We shouldn't go from being empty to being full during dinner, because it puts stress on everyone: managers, servers, and cooks, therefore making the guest suffer. There are only so many guests we can accommodate at a time before we max out our resources and ticket times skyrocket and people start to complain.

I'm sure a formula exists, and I wouldn't be surprised if the corporation knows it and puts it in their management training manuals. But it isn't being used, as far as I can see. Tomorrow I'll ask Petra how restaurant management works. I'll work on my Nash equilibrium. I'll post tickets on my wall and connect bits of yarn and string and find my own version of Nash's equilibrium. Then I will be able to explain to everyone working here what needs to be changed. Because, I'm learning, if I don't do it, nobody will.

I'm just one man trying to change what I can to make everyone happy. I like John Nash. I'm trying to find my original idea, no matter how long it takes me. I'm a writer, not a mathematician. It could be a while...I'll keep you posted.

Peace.

KISS Me I'm Stupid!

2007-03-31T02:28:00.000-07:00

KISS is short for keep it simple stupid, stupid.

I need to be more straightforward. More serious and to the point. Hone in on my message and make is so simple anyone can understand it, rather than rambling and jumping all over the place. I was thinking earlier that I'm a post-9/11 renaissance man: a jack-of-all-trades but master of none. In today's age of specialization, I could be left out because I simply am not great at any one thing. People want to be able to summarize other people in a paragraph or less. They want to say "ok, he's a racist plumber," "she's a black lawyer," "he's the artist who paints butts," "and so on. I don't want to be "the arrogant kid who thinks he knows everything and is better than everyone" anymore. (Mom--I'm growing up. YAY!)

I don't know what my epithet is. Am I really a self-loathing arrogant-asshole? [ed.--Or do I just play one on tv?] Who am I? Geez, I don't even know anymore. I can't say it in a paragraph or less, but I'm trying. I still can't do it now no matter how hard I try. That's why I'm trying to document the process on my blog in the hope that it might help someone someday, even if that person is just my future self. I'm getting exhausted writing all this. I'm internalizing way too much, becoming more introverted when I should be more extroverted. I'm thinking too much--I should get out and start doing. I need to talk to real people, not just myself.

And then one day I will wake up, and I'll be forty-seven, and I'll stumble on this blog thing I wrote when I was twenty-seven, and I'll have a mid-life crisis. I will re-read this craptastic blog, and have an epiphany that will change my life forever, and I will become the next David Sedaris. The serious writer writing about my generation that I know I can be. But I can't do it now. I'm still telling and not showing. I'm still trying to run before I've learned to crawl. I need to get out and learn the rules, I mean really learn them this time, before I start breaking them. God, I hate to say it, but I need more schoolin'.

Enough! I'll have no more of this talk of returning to school! I don't need no education! I'm not another brick in the wall! School forces you to narrow your mind, focus too much, until you develop tunnel-vision. You become a myopic nerd with glasses like me. Oh, wait........Ehh...I give up. I don't know what's what anymore. I don't know what's real. This writing thing is driving me crazy. I keep going around in circles...Let's see if this helps:

Some ground rules for my writing:

No more parenthesis, semicolons, dashes, or brackets. Sentences must be simple. No more asides or editorial comments.
Focus on one medium at a time. If I'm doing a writing piece, no photos, and vice versa. Let each medium speak for itself.
Outline and plan a course of attack, don't just improvise. Figure out what you're trying to say first, and then find the best way to express it. Don't use the spaghetti method, and just throw a bunch of crap out there and hope it sticks.
Write several drafts. Don't just assume what comes off the top of my head is pure gold.
Don't trust my gut. If something sounds funny to me, it probably is just funny to me and no one else.
Don't be afraid to be unoriginal. Appeal to the lowest common denominator by using cliches that everyone can understand, i.e. KISS. You want your message to reach the widest audience possible, not the narrowest.
You are not special. Don't think you can break the rules just because you're different. You're not. You're a biological social entity just like everyone else.
Bad art should not be mixed with good art under any circumstances. Either be good or bad, but not both at the same time. Avoid mixed messages.
Bad art should not be confused with a personal style, or artistic voice just because it's the easy way out. It' s too hard for most people to know what's good bad, and bad bad. And good bad is almost impossible to do. You have to be bad, then good, then finally good bad, but only a select few reach that point. There are no shortcuts.
Don't assume people know who you are or what you are talking about. Assume the only thing they will ever know about you is what words you write.

God, my rules are stupid. But I need them, for now so I can sleep. It's 3:28 am. I have to work a double tomorrow. Goodnight.

Peace.

This Week on Best Week Ever: My Passions / Wednesday: Comedy

2007-03-28T14:31:00.000-07:00

This Week on Best Week Ever: My Passions / Tuesday: Pleasure

2007-03-27T03:12:00.000-07:00

I think I'm going to try something new this week, something a little different. This week I am going to focus on my passions--what I love to do on my days off, and what I would be doing if I had a million dollars and never had to work again. I remember my guidance counselor in high school said to figure out what you want to do in life, just imagine what you would do if you had all the money and all the free time in the world. If you'd go fishing, then become a commercial fisherman. If you'd paint, become an house painter. If you'd drink beer, become a construction worker, and so on. Once I have found my passions, I am that much closer to growing up and landing a real job that will make me truly happy. And following your passions is the meaning of life, so I'm told. Here we go...

TUESDAY: PLEASURE

I used to come home from work every day and follow the same ritual: take a long hot shower, smoke a bowl, take a couple shots of Jager, chug a few beers, eat half a large pepperoni Pizza from Papa Johns, pass out on my couch between three and four am, wake up at five am to puke, and then again at seven, then sleep until two in the afternoon. I got wasted every night. And I wonder why I gained over forty pounds after dropping out of college. The problem was I liked to feel good whenever I could. I was a party animal alone in my one bedroom apartment.

I felt like I was making up for lost time: I was raised by born-again Christian hippies, and was never allowed to watch MTV or do anything fun with friends because 'God was always watching.' Candy and soda were restricted for special occasions, and I couldn't even enjoy pop culture such as He-Man and Scooby Doo growing up because the cartoons dealt with 'the occult.' When Halloween came around, my mom wrote notes to my teacher excusing me from class, because Halloween was considered by my parents to be a 'celebration of the devil.' If we were allowed to go trick-or-treating, we could only dress up as two things: a clown or a princess. When my parents got divorced when I was thirteen, we stopped going to church and I met my new Muslim friend Moe. I thought of converting to Islam to fill the void left when we gave up Christianity, but I decided against it. In college, I gave up religion completely. I told myself 'God isn't watching me,' 'their is no such thing as the devil, or boogeyman' and the 'occult' is just stupid. [ed.--Though I have been reading up on Buddhist philosophy recently].

But when I turned 21 and dropped out of school, I was looking for something, anything to fill the void inside of me that had been formerly filled with a naive devotion to God as a child, and in school a devotion to being a good student. I wanted to please other people, but when I dropped out of college, I had spent so much time being good, I desperately wanted to please myself by being bad for once. I wanted to fill the void inside of me with alcohol, food, and weed. I wanted to break all the rules; I wanted to party. That's why I took mindless jobs that I hated like the ten months of hell I spent working at Taco John's were I met a couple of stoners named Wayne and James who introduced me to weed.

I had to do a lot of research online for myself to make sure that weed was safe [ed.-The jury is still out on that one, but I still think weed is no worse than alcohol--maybe even better because an overdose of weed won't kill you. But if you drive while stoned, you're an idiot. I don't need a research article to prove that.] before I took my first hit when I hung out with my Taco John's friends after work. I spent my first 'kegger' at Wayne's place getting drunk, high, and playing GTA until I passed out on his sofa. I woke up several times to puke in his bathroom, and promised myself I would never do that again. But I did. Several more times, in fact.

But just like video games, I can't do weed anymore; it's boring. It might not kill me, but it will keep me from growing up, much like the older members of the meaningless jobs I work at. I can't remember the last time I smoked weed. I don't know if I'll ever touch the stuff again. I used to think smoking would make me more creative, but the reality is now that I have learned the lessons I needed to learn from Mary Jane, and can silence the inner critic without getting high, I can quit weed with confidence. I don't need it anymore. Beer is a different story--it's more socially acceptable to drink. I'll continue to drink in moderation on occasion, but I won't drink until I puke every night like I used to.

Food is different. I still need to eat. And since I need food to survive, I can't exactly give it up completely. But I don't look to food to fill the void; I'm trying to eat less 'fun' meals full of healthy things like vegetables and minerals, not cheese and pepperoni. I don't just eat as much as I can whenever I can anymore, I eat what I need to be healthy. And that leads me to the lesson that I needed to learn in the first place--moderation and self-discipline. People would tell me that drugs are bad, that alcoholism is a deadly disease, and that being overweight is detrimental to your health, but I needed to learn how to cope with life on my own without turning to other substances. I thought I could escape my problems by binging and getting high at night, but when I sobered up in the morning, my problems were still there, plus a couple new ones: an empty wallet and a killer hangover.

I've cut back on my earthly pleasures. Now I only order Papa John's to celebrate a real success like making employee of the month at Red Lobster, not just getting out of bed. I'm trying to drink less than a twelve-pack a week. And I haven't touched weed in a long time, and I don't know if I ever will smoke again. I've learned my lessons. I've made up for lost time. Now it's time for me to be serious. Time to grow up. I can't just feed my immediate hedonistic desires and expect to feel good forever. I've learned this lesson, and it's time for me to be a mature adult now. It's time for me to kick my bad habits and find my real passions to fill the void. It's time for me to get high on life.

(Tune in tomorrow for more Passions. Like any good soap, I'm gonna save the best stuff for Friday...)

Peace.

This Week on Best Week Ever: My Passions / Monday: Vid-G-O Games

2007-03-26T14:58:00.000-07:00

I think I'm going to try something new this week, something a little different. This week I am going to focus on my passions--what I love to do on my days off, and what I would be doing if I had a million dollars and never had to work again. I remember my guidance counselor in high school said to figure out what you want to do in life, just imagine what you would do if you had all the money and all the free time in the world. If you'd go fishing, then become a commercial fisherman. If you'd paint, become an house painter. If you'd drink beer, become a construction worker, and so on. Once I have found my passions, I am that much closer to growing up and landing a real job that will make me truly happy. And following your passions is the meaning of life, so I'm told. Here we go...

MONDAY: VID-G-O GAMES

I used to want to play video games all day. Every day. So I used to want to be a game tester, but then I found out I'd have to play just a small part of the game over and over again ad nauseum looking for bugs. I wouldn't get to play any full games, because they aren't finished testing them yet. Being a game tester would take all the fun out of playing video games in the first place, so that idea was out.

Then I thought I could be a game designer. But I don't really have any good ideas for games. I told Jeff at work that we should make a game based on being an Expo at Red Lobster. Kinda like the old-school Burgertime, only slightly better. You'd have to run around avoiding the servers who get in your way doing all the broiling, grilling, microwaving, and frying at first, but later on in the game once you'd completed enough tickets (and got enough bonus points for successful combos for getting all the food out at the same time, making the servers, guests, and managers happy), you could hire a broiler, assembler, and fry guy to help you out. But like all NPC's, the AI would be a little weak, and you would get messages on your screen such as "Your fry guy has wandered off," and "Your broiler has fallen asleep--kick him to wake him up." The goal would be to make as much money for Red Lobster as possible, and your character would get a small percentage of the profits (>.001%), just like in real life. But I don't have the slightest idea of how to make video games. Jeff does--he says he's moving to California in six months to start a career in the video game industry as an artistic director since he recently graduated with an art and film degree from the University of Iowa. But he didn't seem all that interested in the idea of producing the Red Lobster All-Stars video game with me, so that idea is out too.

When I got laid off from Copyworks, my first 'real' job after I dropped out of college, I played video games all the time because I was bored and had nothing better to do. Three months later, when I hadn't even started looking for a new job because I was too distracted killing people in my favorite video game of all time, Grand Theft Auto, I got a message from my landlord saying he would have to evict me for nonpayment of rent. So I decided to look for a job that day, and the first place I went to was two blocks away to Taco John's to get something to eat. After I placed my order, I asked for an application. "What the hell," I thought. "It can't hurt to apply here, just in case I can't find a better job today." I didn't expect the owner to come to my table mid-bite and ask me when I could start. I was so shocked, I didn't know what to say. I had a mouthful of food, and mumbled something incoherently. "Great! Come back here and we'll get you a uniform!" the owner said. The next ten months can only be described as Hell on earth as I learned the in's and out's of working in a fast food restaurant. One day I became so depressed and suicidal that I decided to walk out mid-shift before I did something stupid. I spent the next two months looking for a job and playing video games all over again.

Then I landed a job at HandiMart, a now defunct local gas station/convenience store chain in Iowa. I got to know almost every single person here in Coralville who stopped in to fill up their car or grab a soda on their way to work. I also learned that when people enter a gas station, they are hedonistically evil. They only care for feeding their immediate desire to be a good consumer and buy impulse items at ridiculously high prices. They could care less about the feelings of the clerk behind the counter, and when feeding their vices for smoking, drinking, gambling, eating junk food, etc. are content to take out their grievances with their life on the clerk on the other side of the counter. "These cigarettes are too expensive!" "I don't want ethanol gas--I heard it rots your engine!" "It's too hot outside!" "This soda is too cold!" "I want to turn in these dirty cans so I can buy a lottery ticket!" are all conversations I imagined pedestrians from HandiMart saying in Grand Theft Auto as I ran them over in my car. So I quit HandiMart and again spent a couple months playing video games and looking for a new job--this time one that didn't involve working directly with the public. I wanted to be hidden in a back room somewhere doing menial tasks, not out front making small talk with people as I rang them up just so I could hear them bitch about their lives.

I currently work as a line cook at Red Lobster, and will be training to Expo once Jeff leaves for California to develop video games. On my days off I don't play video games that much anymore. I'm usually too busy with my new hobby blogging my life for all to see. I'm happier now when I get off of work, and even on the busiest days I go home I don't hate people. As a line cook the worst I ever have to deal with is servers screaming in the window for their food. But since I see these servers every day and have formed casual relationships with them, I don't mind the screaming as much as if it came from a stranger. I understand their frustration. Servers are on my side. We're fighting a losing battle against the increasingly frustrating consumers whining for their food. I often feel like we're feeding mindless consumers, human cattle, working at Red Lobster. But it's ok, I don't have to ever see these fat cows. I don't have to imagine them as I run over pedestrians playing Grand Theft Auto anymore. I bought the new GTA: Vice City Stories for my PS2 for $20 a few weeks ago when it came out, but I hardly ever play it. I'm happier now, and the cynical side of me is melting away now that I'm growing up. I'm realizing once you get to know people, they aren't that bad.

So now I'm trying to figure out what else to do with my life. Video games are out, now that I'm maturing. They're too distracting and can take up too much time if I'm not careful. It's easy to have no life and play video games all day to forget your problems, but I don't want to do that any more. I want to find my real passions and live a real life, not a virtual one trapped inside some video game killing people.

(Tune in tomorrow for more Passions. Like any good soap, I'm gonna save the best stuff for Friday...)

Peace.

Mauschwitz

2007-03-23T22:21:00.000-07:00

First semester of college, I was a biochemistry major. I wanted to study neuroscience and find a cure for Alzheimer’s, so midway through the semester I thought I should sign up for a work study program working in a real lab to better my resume. So I attended a Job Fair at the Student Union in mid-fall and met a man named Ron Hrstka who told me about his lab at the Gene Targeting Core Facility (GTCF). The GTCF “provides technical and research services to investigators on the University of Iowa campus and elsewhere for the generation of gene knockout mouse models,” Ron told me. “Hmm…Lab Assistant at the Gene Targeting Core Facility, wow, that would look great on my resume,” I thought, so I went ahead and signed up that night.

I got a call from Ron the next day, and I started the following week at five thirty in the morning. Ron told me that I wouldn’t be working in a normal lab, with beakers and test tubes, per se, but rather in the ‘mouse colony,’ which housed over ten thousand mice. Since I had a copper-hooded pet rat named Copernicus as a teenager, I thought working with mice would be a similar pleasure. I would be responsible for feeding, or ‘grueling’ the mice in the morning, and then once the mice were fed, I would help Ron’s assistant in the mouse colony enter data about the mouse litters into a computer.

For starters, mice are separated into cages according to litter and marked soon after they are weaned. A hole punch is used to gouge a small semi-circular hole in the ear of the mouse according to their assigned number. No punch is number one. Upper right ear, number two. Lower right, three. Upper left, four. And finally, lower left five. If the litter is exceptionally large, a combination of ear-punches and toe-clipping is used. Toe-clipping involves completely removing one of the fingers of the mouse’s paw, and in this way a large number of mice can be accounted for. This was necessary since the particular lab I worked in housed approximately ten thousand mice, separated into cages of five. A labyrinthine system of hallways connected each room.

Before you entered a room in the mouse colony, you had to first enter a small 10x10 foot room in which you washed your hands up to the elbows, donned an aqua-blue surgical mask, hairnet, apron, surgical gloves and booties. I felt like a real neurosurgeon scrubbing up getting ready to enter the ER. Before you touched the doorknob to open the door, you had to use the spray bottle of alcohol on your gloved hands, and before you could step into the room you had to spray the bottom of your booties. Inside each room housed the mice, five or six rows of cages with five or six levels each, and an examination table, or ‘hood’ where the cages were brought to feed and examine the mice. The hood was about waist-level, and was encased in Plexiglas and had a vent over it suck out the possibly contaminated air, and had another Plexiglas door at the front. I was told in the unlikely event that any mice escaped from the hood while being examined, I was required to stomp on them so they couldn't get out and contaminate the other mice. This would be difficult for a fugitive mouse to do, since the door of the hood was six inches higher than the floor, and the lowest level of cages was two feet off the ground. Also, a five millimeter gap separated the door from the floor, so escape into the other labyrinthine labs was nearly impossible.

The mice came in two colors: white and black. If the gene knockout was successful, the mouse was white with black spots. If it wasn’t the mouse was all black. Black mice were of no use to the researchers and were killed. My job on Fridays was to dispose of the mice. The workers who cleaned the cages in the mornings before I arrived would separate the black mice and put them in a cage in the main office of the lab. Wearing the usual clothes I wore to class, sans surgical gear, I covered the cage with an aqua-blue surgical apron and walked a couple blocks to the medical lab that housed the gas chamber. Since the mice were going to be killed anyway, it didn’t matter that they might get contaminated by their first venture into the outside world; the cage was covered so not to upset the other students in the Med Labs. The gas chamber was a small lab that resembled a doctor’s office, outfitted with several large tanks of CO2, similar to the helium tanks used to inflate balloons for a child’s party. Next came the hardest part of the job. I had to dump the mice in the cage—the black mice who were no use to the lab, along with breeder mice that had gotten too old to reproduce—into a white five-gallon bucket lined with a blue plastic bag marked “Hazardous Materials.” A lid with a two-inch hole in the center was firmly placed on top, and a hose running from the carbon dioxide tank was placed securely in the hole.

Once I was sure the seal was airtight, I turned the nozzle of the tank and counted to thirty. One-Mississippi…two-Mississippi…three-Mississippi…rattle-rattle-in the bucket…four-Mississippi…squeak-squeak in the bucket……ten-Mississippi…rattle-rattle-in the bucket……twenty-Mississippi…silence in the bucket……thirty-Mississippi. Then I carefully opened the bucket away from my face, and backed away for another thirty seconds so I wouldn’t inhale the escaping vapors. The smell inside the bucket was a nauseating mix of mouse urine and feces. I was required to shake the bucket, and if there was any movement, repeat the gassing process as many times as necessary. I remember one breeder mouse that looked a lot like Copernicus took three gassings to finish off.

Once I was satisfied that all the mice were dead, I knotted up the blue plastic bag like a common bag of trash and walked it back to the lab. There I tossed it into a special freezer reserved for mouse carcasses. I never found out what happened to the mice after that.

***
Sometimes I dreamed of rescuing the poor little mice. After all, the mouse colony staff didn’t care what happened to them once their usefulness ran out. I thought of freeing the mice somewhere in the woods, since the University of Iowa Hospitals are located adjacent to a wooded area, but figured the poor, simple city mice wouldn’t know how to fend for themselves. They had become accustomed to a daily regiment of brown gruel, and wouldn’t know how to forage for food in the wilderness. Born a lab mouse, die a lab mouse. I considered taking a few select mice home with me to my dorm, and stealing some gruel from the lab to feed them, but since there was a strict no-pets policy in the dorms, I decided against it.

I estimate in the three months that I worked at the lab I gassed almost a thousand mice in the same five-gallon bucket. The Nazi’s killed almost six million Jews.

***
Today, mice are killed so that humans can live. Billions of mice around the country are gassed each day so that cures can be found for diseases such as Alzheimer’s. But I can’t do it anymore. Every time I gassed a new batch of mice, I remembered the graphic novel we read in high school titled 'Maus.' Each gassing reminded me of Mauschwitz, and a tear would weld up in my eye as I remembered my pet rat Copernicus who would sit on my shoulder who later died from pneumonia at the ripe old age of four. Better to leave the gassing to the real researchers, the future doctors and surgeons of America. I’d rather write about my experiences as a survivor of the mouse colony concentration camps.

{Peace}

John

Is There Anybody Out There?

2007-03-20T19:57:00.000-07:00

I've only been doing this blog thing for about a month now, but already I'm starting to get concerned. I don't think anyone is reading this. Blogger is supposed to be the internet springboard for launching my writing career, but it can't be if people don't read my blog. Maybe someone out there in cyberspace is reading this right now. If so, drop me a line or a comment. Please?

I'm sure it's a little intimidating to read someone's new blog and be the first one to post a comment, especially if you don't feel you have anything important to add. All I ask from you is a "lol" here or there, or an "atta boy, keep up the good work!" every now and then. Heck, I'd even take a "this blog sux" right now. At least it would mean that someone was reading this crap.

I asked one or two people at the Lob to read my blog, but I don't want to seem desperate by bugging everyone there all the time--hell, we've got work to do. "Did you read it? Didja? Which one did you like? All of them??? Great! Guess what? I'm turning in my two weeks notice because I'm gonna be on Oprah next month to advertise my memoir for her book club..." and other imagined conversations go through my head while I push buttons on the microwave and put plates in the window. It's a shame I hardly ever really talk to anyone there.

Jeff, from work, told me I should spam a bunch of message boards with things such as: "LOOKING FOR THE NEW AGE FOLK??!? CHECK IT OUT AT HTTP://NEWAGEFOLK.BLOGSPOT.COM!!!," but I'm not that desperate yet. It's only been a month since I started. And really, isn't the true test of how great a writer I am is by how many hits I get? I'm sure one day I will wake up and there will be a million hits and my blog will be featured on Blogger, or something. And then I'll get a call from Oprah's assistant saying "We'd love to have you on our show! You absolutely must come to Chicago, don't worry, we'll pay for everything! When can we expect you?" And then I will be listened to. Then I will have an audience to talk to.

I keep telling myself I'm only 27. My time will come. I have to keep working on my blog since it's the only thing keeping me from going insane working as a line cook at a record-breaking seafood restaurant here in Iowa. There's a reason [ed.- Because 'This blog sux!!!'] I'm still working at the Lob fantasizing about the future, but my time will come. My time will come. Surely I'm not just another brick in the wall.

Peace.

I can't come to work today...I have March Madness

2007-03-20T01:48:00.000-07:00

I tried to get out of work the other day by telling my Culinary Manager, Petra that I was suffering from March Madness and I needed to go home. Coming from me, I hoped she would say "March Madness? What's that?" and sent me home before I infected other co-workers. She didn't send me home. But truth be told, I could care less about basketball--it was just a nice spring afternoon and I wanted to get out and take some pictures, do some MS Paint drawings and drink beer:

More to come later. Look at me. I'm clearly suffering from March Madness. There is definitely something wrong with me. Petra, I need to go home.

Peace.

I <3 www.icanhascheezburger.com

2007-03-19T14:38:00.000-07:00

Here are some of my favorite images from I Can Has Cheeseburger? BTW, did I mention I drew the drawing for their About ichc page?

This guy looks just like Stranger Ranger (Holly's cat)

They aren't all lolcats. Some are lolracoons.

Or lolhamsters. This little guy is called the World Peace Hamster by some. Awww...He's so cute I think I'll sell all my guns.

Do you has a flavor? I do: Old Spice.

Sorry, I didn't know you were uh, oh....ummm....oops. I'll be sure to knock next time.

Don't worry, kitteh is not really ded. Just playin'.

And finally, edited for work since this is the only image on the site with profanity, but probably the funniest:

Have a better day, now.

Peace.

Gang Alert: How to Spot Members of the Orange Hat Gang (OHG)

2007-03-13T22:06:00.000-07:00

GANGS – “Let’s Cut to the Chase”

Gangs are present in all 50 states and territories and have become International. Specific gangs (i.e. Bloods, Crips, 18th Street Sureno13, OHG, etc.) which were present only in California, and other western states have made a steady migration east the last 10 -15 years and have or are gaining a foothold in the Midwest and South.
Gang population actually declined in the late 1990’s but after the World Trade Center tragedy of 9/11 (2001), as police departments shifted focus towards terrorism, and officers were pulled from gang details, gang populations started to increase. Estimates are from between 750,00 to 850,000 gang members.
Gangs are not confined to urban areas. They are present in small towns, mid-size communities, and suburban areas. Gang activity is present in all geographic areas of Iowa.
Youth are joining gangs at a younger age and remaining longer. Gang membership may exist between the ages of 6 and 60. Gang membership crosses all socioeconomic, racial, and gender lines. Female gangs account for 5-10% of the total gang population. Because female gang members believe they must prove to their male counterparts, they will also use extreme violence against other female gangs and in some rare instances, against male gangs.

(from http://www.19thcircuitcourt.state.il.us/bkshelf/gangalrt/gangalrt.htm)

WHAT IS A GANG?

A youth gang is defined as adolescents and young adults who interact frequently and are deliberately involved in illegal activities, share a common identity (often expressed through a gang name), adopt certain symbols and/or claim control over certain "turf".

WHO JOINS THE GANG AND WHY?

No one is immune to becoming a gang member although gang members come from every type of background, there are certain factors that may increase the likelihood of gang involvement.

These factors are:

Peer pressure
Intimidation from gang members
Feeling of a lack of love and respect
Lack of close family relationship
Lack of discipline
Low income family
Low self-esteem
Single parent family
School dropout or truant (poor student)
Victim of abuse/neglect, parental abuse
Negative role models
No outside interest

Young people need positive role models, recognition, love and respect from their families and their communities. If their needs are not met in a constructive way, some will turn to the gangs to meet these needs.

MEASURES TO TAKE TOWARD A SOLUTION

Spend time with your children discussing this issue, ask for their suggestions and feelings. Let them know they are not alone. Encourage your children to stay in school; talk to the school and get the tutoring or counseling they need. We all come from different family circumstances and each situation will be different. If there has been open communication with your children as they grow - then they're probably discussing this with you. Point out positive alternatives to them. Offer to help them find something else that give them a sense of pride, a sense of belonging or a means to be recognized as someone of value as parents. By reaching out and joining together in parent support groups or neighborhood watch programs, we can reclaim the community for children.

(from http://www.ci.west-bend.wi.us/Departments/Police/GangInfo.htm)

WAYS TO SPOT MEMBERS OF THE ORANGE HAT GANG (OHG)

Some things to look for:

Orange Hat (may be a hardhat, or baseball cap, or sometimes camouflaged)
Orange Vest
Blue-collared shirt
Black or brown steel-toe work boots

CAUTION: Members of the OHG typically carry tools and weapons, so they should not be approached. Gang members are unusually hostile members of society.

Some Members of the OHG:

(click for larger image)

I just wanted to post this information in the hope that it might save someone's life someday. If I can save just one child from joining the OHG because he thinks it's "cool" then I will have succeeded. Even if I don't save that poor kid, I will have succeeded. I like to set the bar low.
--John

Peace.

Evidence I gathered against the Orange Hat Gang (OHG)

2007-03-13T19:17:00.000-07:00

The following pictures were taken recently by me to demonstrate the wanton destruction of the Orange Hat Gang (OHG). Once I catch these criminals, I will submit this evidence to support my case against them in court. I'm currently working on a class-action lawsuit so others like me will not have to live with this noise and destruction going on in their own backyard.

Exhibit A: Here is a close-up of the graffito-tagged tree I mentioned in the previous post.

Exhibit B: This is one of their OHG camps that they set up when they are doing their 'work' on an area.

Exhibit C: I followed them one day to this place. This is one of their more upscale hideouts. Looks like some sort of meth lab to me. God only knows what harmful chemicals they're cooking up in there.

Exhibit D: They sure like to litter. I think that's one of their boots in the center. I should send it to the FBI and see if they can get a DNA sample from it.

Exhibit E: Here are some unmarked black buckets filled with mysterious harmful chemicals they left behind. I should call the bomb squad to get rid of them.

Exhibit F: They like to tear down trees, remove the bark, and re-plant them with secret communication devices like those shown in the center (I destroyed this device, but other OHG devices remain).

Exhibit G: They also like to remove stones and replace them with these "objects" that are perhaps used in some sort of OHG initiation ritual.

Exhibit H: I snuck into their camp late at night to snap this picture of their pimped out vehicles of destruction. Luckily the snow stopped their efforts, at least until it melted. Certainly the numbers on the side of the vehicle mean something? 312. Maybe the police should check it out.

Exhibit I: Here is one of their piles of dirt they created with their vehicles. You can see the fresh tire tracks in the mud from their joyriding.

Exhibit J: As you can see from this makeshift bulletin board, these men are well-organized and well-compensated for their actions. Unfortunately, as you can see from the "It's the Law" poster, the OHG is trying to pose as a legitimate business. The corrupt law may already be on their side.

Exhibit K: I've been following the OHG ever since my photography teacher in college (Margaret Stratton) urged us to do an assignment on urban development in 1999. As you can see, I've been tracking them for a long time (Note: I got an A in that class. I'm a good student, unlike OHG members).

Exhibit L: Here is another image from the same time period. Note the possible connection to Bush.

Exhibit M: And finally, "Stop." Yes, certainly someone should stop this wanton destruction.

God, I hope this is enough evidence to convict these slippery bastards. Like the mafia, the Orange Hat Gang is well-connected. I wouldn't be surprised if the OHG goes all the way to the top. President George W. Bush probably knows all about them and is keeping quiet. They probably pay his salary. Who knows, maybe the gang is so big, that they even single-handedly voted Bush into office so they could keep a man on the inside. Nah, who am I kidding. I may be crazy for exposing the OHG and saying all this, but even a blue-collared group of shmucks wouldn't be dumb enough to vote for Bush, would they? God, perhaps this gang is more evil than I thought...

Peace.

(ed.-Just for fun...Exhibit N: John Nauman. I'm just an artist. I don't have any real answers, any solutions to this destruction. My job is only to hold the mirror up to society and show us our own ugly face...)

Some gang marked this tree for death...

2007-03-13T18:14:00.000-07:00

See that white spray paint on the bottom of that tree? A few weeks ago, a gang of young men, probably four or five of them, came by my area and graffito-tagged about a half-dozen trees in my backyard. I didn't get their names, but they were wearing bright orange-colored vests and similar-colored hats. They've been tearing up my neighborhood for weeks now, but I haven't been able to catch them.

I looked on the internet to see what this particular symbol, a white 'X' as it's called by this particular gang, meant. I remember seeing a tattoo of a teardrop on a customer when I worked at HandiMart, and the internet told me it meant that this particular gang member had killed someone. The internet informed me that this so-called "X" bears a similar meaning--but it doesn't mean that this particular maple tree is a hardened criminal--it means it's marked for death by the Orange Hat Gang (OHG).

Five of the six trees that were tagged have been brutally murdered with chainsaws by the OHG. They hacked this guy up pretty good, and you can see they clean cut off one of his limbs, but they let him live. Perhaps it's a warning to the other trees from the OHG, I'm not sure. I never understood the seemingly random actions of this particular gang.

I've seen them before in my town, this gang. Like other gangs, the OHG pimp out there cars. But unlike other gangs who innocently paint flames on their cars and put hydraulics in them to make them bounce, the OHG likes to paint their cars orange and put hydraulic instruments of destruction on them best suited for tearing down forests and digging up dirt. They also like to tear up the streets and close off sidewalks too; taking out trees is just a hobby of theirs. I'm not sure who to write to about this gang, because at times I have seen the police help block off roads and sidewalks so these men can continue their wanton destruction. I suspect that the men in black are just a similar gang in cahoots with the men in orange. They won't rest until the earth is paved over in cement, it appears.

I still don't understand their feud with the trees, though. Trees don't usually fight back. Perhaps one ill-fated night a bolt of lightning struck a tree branch and killed a member of the OHG, and they harbor an arboreal vendetta because of it. But it wasn't the tree's fault it was struck by lightning. It's not like the tree could take shelter indoors during a lightning storm. It was the gang member's fault for seeking shelter under the tallest tree in a thunderstorm...everyone knows that's a dumb thing to do.

But these gang members never seemed too bright. I went to school with a few of them, and they were good kids for the most part. Most of them envisioned leading a successful and meaningful life, but they were eventually led to a crime-filled life of destruction, and so adorned the typical bright orange-colored hats and vests and joined the OHG in order to make ends meet.

I'm not sure if the Orange Hat Gang will return to take this tree's life. If they do, I might call the police. I'll let them know that the OHG is back, and up to their old tricks. Maybe they can catch the crooks in the act this time and teach these punks a lesson. It's about time someone put an end to this wanton destruction. Who's with me?

I am the Lorax, I speak for the trees.

Peace.

MySpace + MadSkillz in MS PAINT = VALIDATION (thanks www.icanhascheezburger.com!)

2007-03-06T14:42:00.000-08:00

As you probably know from reading my last post, I have a myspace page now, and I need new cool friends. So I was browsing around myspace and stumbled on this page that had all kinds of cat pictures with absurd comments like "NO MOAR LAND BEFORE TIME SEKWELZ!" and I fell in love, so I had to draw something since I don't have a cat [ed.-but Holly does...hmmm...I must call her]. So....

I drawed that in MS PAINT. Took me a whole three minutes, or so. Just swish swish swish of the brush, fill paint bucket with different shades of gray, and add last minute text, and I was done. Then I uploades it to imageshack and put it in a comment for Happycat thanking him for the add on myspace.

And now if you go to his website and click on the About ichc link you will see my picture on the top! That's so cool! I'm part of an Internet phenomenon with my crappy drawing.

But the image is perfect for the site. Perfect for Tim and Eric, too...if they ever incorporated terribly awful MS Paint drawings in their show. So it just goes to show I need to get up off my fat ass and put my work out there in the right avenues for people to appreciate it. I know if I just went up to someone on the street and showed them my lame Happycat drawing, they wouldn't know if I was joking or serious, and would probably back away from me slowly. But here on the Internet, we know irony. We know when something is "soo koooll!!1!!" that it needs to remembered forever on some server's hard drive for all to see and make laugh.

Capital One is serving me papers

2007-03-05T21:27:00.000-08:00

Some time today, or maybe tomorrow, I imagine a black Chevy suburban will pull up to my one bedroom apartment here at the Capri Lodge, and a man dressed in black will knock on my door.

“Sheriff’s department,” he will say. And then he will serve me papers from Capital One.

I’m not sure right now if I will open the door. If I’m home I guess I will. I mean, isn’t it a crime to not answer the door when the police come calling? I’ve committed no crimes up to this point [ed.-Being poor, young, and stupid it not a crime—yet.], I don’t want my natural anxiety and paranoia to get me in even more trouble than I am already in. It’s time for me to open the door, and face my fears.

“Hello, Officer. What seems to be the problem?” I might say, acting innocent. I’m tipped off to this encounter with the Coralville Police Department by my mother, who called me Sunday morning at nine am to tell me the Sheriff’s Department in Dubuque had already visited. Her first call, and her second and third, I ignored and continued to sleep—I had a full forty minutes before my alarm was supposed to go off to wake me for work. But by the forth call, I knew my mom was more serious than usual. I could tell by the ring that somebody had died.

But they hadn’t. Everything was fine. “Hello…Are you ok, Jonathan?,” my mom asked me, as I rubbed my eyes and tried to acclimate them to the light. “Uhh…yeah, I’m fine….,” I said. “Were you sleeping? Oh, sorry to wake you. But you know what, the Sheriff’s Department was just here looking for you…” She paused to gauge my reaction and to anticipate a last-minute confession. “No, Mom, the gun wasn’t mine! I didn’t sell that coke to that kid! I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no dead prostitute!” my sleep-addled mind wrestled with what crime had been discovered for which I had been accused. I received a call from my sister Holly a few days earlier telling me that she was accused of a hit-and-run in a blue Chevy pickup in Decorah, Iowa on the fifteenth. Despite the fact that Holly neither lives in Decorah, nor owns a blue Chevy pickup, and her timecard from Ripples Diner in Riverside states that she was clocked in at the time of the alleged accident, the police persisted because “Holly Kelly” looks so much like “Holly Kelley.” No one had bothered to double check the names. It was a simple case of mistaken identity.

It’s a shame I can’t use that excuse with my Capital One debt. I know and they know I owe them thirteen-hundred dollars. I planned on paying it back, but it’s been almost ten years now, I figured I could wait a little longer. I barely have money for rent and I can’t afford a car so I take the bus. My credit is terrible. My student loans are in default and my wages are going to be garnished soon. So Capital One serving me papers is the least of my worries here at the Capri Lodge.

“Make sure you go to court, Jonathan. If you don’t, the judge is just going to think you’re another one of those kids who doesn’t care—” “—I don’t care,” I interrupt. “I know, but if you don’t go to court and they default the judgment, you’re probably going to have to pay a fine, or interest, or something,” she reminds me. “What are a couple more hundred bucks? I don’t plan on buying a car or a house any time soon, so what do I care?” I say.

Right now I just want to get it over with. I hate waiting here for the Sheriff or whoever to serve me papers. I just want to make it quick. Open the door. Take the papers. Sign whatever I have to. 'Good day, sir or madam.' And then I can drink. It’s my day off, for chrissakes. It’s almost six in the evening, and I have tomorrow off too. I should be drunk by now. God, I hate my life sometimes.

Life sucks. Work sucks. This past weekend we broke a new Red Lobster record for most guests served. Eleven-hundred and thirty-some odd people came in to the Coralville Red Lobster and I fed them all from eleven-thirty in the morning to eleven at night without a break. When the restaurant is busy, everyone who comes in gets to eat, but those who work there don’t. These are the sacrifices that come with the immense responsibility of pushing buttons on a microwave and putting plates in the window to feed starving guests. You have to put aside your needs for the greater good; you have to go hours with a full bladder and an empty stomach. All for the fantastic rate of nine dollars an hour, thirty or so odd hours a week. The hours vary day by day, depending on how busy we are. Last Saturday I worked almost twelve hours straight, but the Saturday before that we experienced a February blizzard that caused the restaurant to close three hours early. I think I got a full eight hours that day because I volunteered to stay on until close. But most weekdays I come in at five and leave a little after eight with everyone else on the line. With two weekdays off each week (it’s nearly impossible unless you request time off to not work a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday) I average a little less than thirty hours a week. At nine dollars an hour, after taxes that adds up to less than a thousand dollars a month. I live paycheck to paycheck—I can’t afford to pay Capital One over one month’s pay.

I’m open with my financial situation because I really don’t care anymore. I don’t care who knows I’m in debt. Maybe I’ll be in debt the rest of my life, maybe I won’t. I recently read an MSN Money article on ‘being poor and loving it’ while checking my Hotmail account, and it said you have to live life to the fullest while living within your means. The article stated, in my own words, I should cherish that six pack in my quaint apartment, because I can’t afford to go out and have fun with friends from work. Saturday I made probably eighty bucks after taxes, and Joe, one of the servers walked out with over three hundred in his pocket. God, I should be a server. Damn my social anxiety…

I’ll probably never get a car or a house, and I’ll probably never get out of debt. Or my writing will finally take off, and with my first big book deal I’ll pay off my debtors. I’m going all-or-none in this thing I like to call life. I like to think it makes me daring, but I’m only playing Russian roulette with blanks. I like to think at my ripe old age of twenty seven that I know more than my mom. ‘I’ve seen things that would make her head spin working at Red Lobster, she doesn’t know what trouble I’ve seen, she’s not me, she hasn’t lived my life, I’m going to be famous someday, then she’ll see you can follow your dreams and don’t have to get stuck working at a bank the rest of your life!’ and more clichéd tripe [ed.—Clichéd tripe, sounds like a new species of fish at Red Lobster… “Tonight’s fresh fish are tilapia, salmon, rainbow trout, and clichéd tripe…” the servers will tell our guests next month in order to make that essential guest connection to keep our customers coming back in record numbers…God I need a better life. February has sucked balls.] I tell myself when I listen to her nag at me on the phone. But what come out when I get my chance to speak are monosyllabic grunts of acknowledgement. “You’re going to answer the door when the police come knocking, Jonathan, aren’t you,” my mom says. “Ugh...” I say uncommitted. “Come on, Jonathan, you HAVE to appear in court. Maybe you can work something out…” “Mehsh…” I say. And ‘buh’ I say to Capital One. Hrmpf to my debt. I don’t even care enough to use words or complete sentences anymore. Life has beaten me down. Ok, fine: Mom, the Po-Po, Capital One, you’ve all won! I surrender. Let’s get this thing over with so I can go back to drinking. I have to work a double tomorrow. Gotta go make that money for the man. [ed.-Maybe I won’t answer the door. I haven’t eaten all day so I’m going to walk down to Hardee's and get myself a thickburger combo. They’ll probably just send the papers in the mail like they do with my student loan crap…]

THE END

Disclaimer: It appears to me I might appear to be a typical tortured alcoholic writer. That is because I am. I’m a booze-addled man-child trying to speak out for my generation. And my generation likes Jager. I’m just the vehicle for the collective subconscious, and booze is my muse’s fuel. I can’t help it. I have a disease. A DISEASE. Yes, I am told, alcoholism is a disease. Like AIDS or something, only cooler. You don’t die as fast and you get to have fun drinking. There, are you confused yet? Am I an alcoholic writer or just a drunken deadbeat who needs to grow up? You decide, America. You decide. I’ve given up trying to decide who I want to be. The scary thing is I wrote this whole thing completely sober.

Yeah, I know. I’m surprised too.

Mmmm...that burger was good. I feel better now.

Peace, Capital One.

Hello. My Name is John and I suffer from social anxiety. (in unison)--Hi, John.

2007-03-01T22:46:00.000-08:00

World Beer Tour Night At Old Chicago (2 of 3)

Hi. My name is John and I have social anxiety. (-in unison, "Hi John.")

I self-medicate with beer here at 'Old Chicago' in Coralville, Iowa.

This is my sister. She used to be on Alprazolam. Now she's an Army Wife. She likes to drink too.

I like to stare at the bottom of my beer for hidden messages when I'm nervous. This one looks like a yin-yang symbol, or the face of God, or something. It makes me feel better to look at an empty glass knowing a full one is on it's way from our server. She's nice. She doesn't judge me like the others.

This is what I look at after I've self-medicated. I really don't know who the hell this guy is. He bothers me.

My mom always told me when I was young, if you looked upon the face of God, you would die--you’d disintegrate, and become nothing. “Humans are mortal and have far too many flaws to view the perfect face of the Almighty,” she would tell me. If you died and went to heaven and you wanted to see Jesus, that was okay because Jesus was a mortal man—the Holy Spirit inside the body of Christ here on earth. But if you asked to see God, you would be sternly warned that doing so was suicide, even in Heaven. My mom told me that if you entered the room, or whatever space it is that God occupies, and you look directly at God you will go blind, much like she warned me about staring at the sun. But it didn’t stop there. Not only would you go blind, but if your mind tried to comprehend the complexity of perfection that is Our Lord, your head would explode into a thousand million little pieces; you would cease to exist. My mom told me this when I was ten. I’m not kidding. [ed.-That much pressure put upon a ten year old who desperately wanted to see the face of God, and please his parents, naturally led to indigestion and panic attacks.]

Around the same age, whenever I felt sick, my family would gather around me, and led by my father, would put their hands on my stomach and pray so that the spirit of the Holy Ghost might enter me and make me better. “Oh, Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name” my father would say, waving his hand above my abdomen, “Jesus, please make my son, Jonathan…Jesus please make my son better. In the name of the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost, amen.” I remember my face would flush, and a cold sweat would break out on my forehead. Usually, I was only suffering from mild indigestion, but when I felt those hands upon me, I believed I was possessed by the Holy Spirit. I would experience a mix of hot flashes and chills accompanied by a cool sweat on my blushing forehead. What else could explain this miraculous feeling other than being possessed by the Holy Spirit?

Until recently, I suffered from indigestion and anxiety. So much pressure put upon a ten year old who desperately wanted to see the face of God, and please his parents, naturally led to indigestion and panic attacks later on in life. Now I learned to self-medicate with things such as alcohol (see my previous post for an example) when things get too real for me and I started to feel anxious. If someone looked at my face too long as I handed them their change at the gas station job, I would drink at home that night and wonder what this stranger who had made eye contact with me knew—what deep and dark secrets he could tell just by looking through my eyes, into my window into the skeletons in the closet of my soul. I was an anxious, nervous mess. Each accidental brush of contact with a customer flushed my face, and reminded me of being possessed by the Holy Spirit when I was a sick ten-year old.

My sister, Holly, suffers from panic attacks and is on, or used to be on Alprazolam, I can't remember. She keeps telling me that the Community Mental Health Center here in Iowa City doesn’t charge for service--they go on a donation basis where you give them as much or as little as you think you can afford. I tell her a case of beer is what I can afford this week. It’s my Alprazolam, but you don’t need a prescription from a therapist. Holly’s husband’s brother, Harry, used to be addicted to Alprazolam, but now he quit cold turkey and goes to Old Chicago every night after a hard day of working construction to drink. “After all, I’ve earned it,” Harry, my Dad, and I say. "And it’s better than therapy. Cheaper, too," we tell ourselves. “Therapist—more like ‘the-rapist,’” Chet, Holly's husband, says when he drives Holly to the Mental Health Center once a month. I just walk to the gas station once a week to get my beer and try not to make eye contact with the cashier.

I can remember the last time I’ve had a near-panic attack. About a month ago, I was in the sold-out Paramount theatre in Cedar Rapids watching Jim Gaffigan perform. I looked around me, and while trying to take in how many people were in this theatre and how much air was left, I felt the cool touch of the woman’s shoe next to me on my calf. I felt like I felt when I was a kid: the whole flushing of the skin, heart palpitations, everything. But when I looked upon the bright, pale forehead of Jim Gaffigan, and he told his Jesus, Mary, and Joseph joke I knew I was going to be okay. I had a few beers in me. It was okay to stare at the sun, to look in the face of God, to laugh in the pale face of Jim Gaffigan while drunk. It didn’t always lead to a panic attack that I misconstrued as a child into thinking I was possessed by the Holy Spirit. It's ok to laugh and have fun in public. I learned, ultimately laughter really is the best medicine for panic. And the best part is, God has a sense of humor too.

I need to be like Jim Gaffigan and get up on stage and bare the secret skeletons in my closet. I need to get out of my shell. I need to get drunk and be funny for all to see. It’s my time. My time to share my unique vision with future generations--time to give back to the world I have so selfishly stolen from up until now, at the ripe mature age of twenty-seven. I need to get up on stage and tell my story. I just have to remember when all those eyes are upon me and I feel the cool sweat start to form on my forehead, it’s just the Holy Spirit reminding me that everything is going to be ok, stupid. There's always a beer on the stool next to me.

--John Nauman was raised Methodist by his parents: Bob a construction worker and former Catholic, and Carol a bank worker and former home-maker to six children, both former Christian hippies. He became best friends with Moe, a Muslim classmate from Lebanon, and almost converted to Islam in high school. Now, at age twenty-seven, he believes no one answer is ever the answer for anyone, and that all religions are essentially equal. He is a skeptic who believes in God. A walking contradiction. Kick him in the nuts if you ever see him. God, he pisses me off. I really hate that arrogant fatass, I do.

Peace.

[edit--Happy 53rd B-Day Mom! I can never remember if your birthday is today or tomorrow, but I'll say it now anyway. This blog is for you. May we follow our dreams, maybe not in our lifetimes, but in our successors'.]

Happy World Beer Tour Day at Old Chicago / I shamrock Guiness

2007-02-28T21:11:00.000-08:00

There was this leprechaun...

Then some guy bummed some cigarettes off my sister in exchange for a few tickets for some drawing.

Then this leprechaun gave me a beer coozie. Then he read off some numbers and some people won t-shirts.

Then I said to Holly I need her permission to write about her as an "Army wife." Then I took a picture for my blog.

Then when Chet, Holly's husband called, I pretended to have a winning ticket and ran up to the leprechaun to get my t-shirt. I wanted one so bad.

This was a lesson to Holly and me. A time to grow. A time to be "hard." Earn our dues. There were only 15-20 people in the bar that night and the leprechaun's box said "qty 200." I did the math. The only way I was going to get a t-shirt was by faking it. By pretending to have the winning ticket.

And so it happened. The great t-shirt caper of 2007.

aye, this be all for now...I will update later with more once the mighty guiness wears offfff.............

Tid bit too much a the wee beer....but it's all good. I'm only 27. Keepin' it real.

I will get to the story of tonight at old chicago: "It ain't easy being an army wife"...about Holly being married to Chet who served in Iraq...but not right now.

Peace.

(y'all know what satire is doncha? it ain't an isle in Ireland, letmetellya laddy)
oh, and hey, i really totally stole that t-shirt!! (i'm so hard right now)

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Welcome to my mind

2007-02-27T04:56:00.000-08:00

bear-bear

Dream #347 (detail)

My sister Holly as a cartoon character

self-portrait of me resisting to be painted

Children shouldn't smoke...dummy

Welcome to myspace.com

Rebel Rebel

I like to draw. These are samples from my notebooks, both virtual and real. I hope it gives you a better understanding of where I come from and where I want to go with my ideas. It's a long journey, but I think I can make it in one piece.

Peace.

Jeff & John Show / John & Jeff Show

2007-02-26T23:49:00.000-08:00

I told Jeff about the 'Tim and Eric Awesome Show, Great Job' tonight and that I think we should partner up and do something like that. I don't have much time--Jeff plans to leave Iowa to go to California (he hasn't decided whether he want's to live in San Diego where his friend is [ed.--I should give my sister Sarah a call, she lives in San Diego] or in LA where his calling is in six months (go ahead, reread that sentence.I forgive you. It's long and complex.)). Jeff responded that he hadn't seen the show because he doesn't have cable: "I don't have cable," he said, in the pejorative sense. Like he meant to say "I don't watch television. Notice I didn't say tv. Because tv is a 'nickname.' And television is no friend of mine [ed.-thank, Mr. Show!]."

Ah, well. Too bad Jeff doesn't know what I'm talking about. I'm not sure if I have the ability right now to describe how tragically brilliant the thirty-something pair Tim and Eric are (and how brilliant we could be at their age in ten years if only we quit our line cook jobs and work hard in LA). We need to grow up, while following our dreams. Take risks. Break out of our molds. Come out of our shells.... Who am I kidding.

It's too bad. For a minute there I thought I had an idea. But you know what--what truly scares me is leaving the safety of my apartment here in Iowa with Jeff to go to California, only to discover that we are a dime a dozen. I keep trying to remind myself I always have these menial jobs to fall back on. What the hell. Live for our dreams. We're twenty-something. Our future employers don't care that we ultimately failed in LA (assuming we do). Now that I have that safety net, I can lay down the comic side of myself and give my all in LA. It's time to be serious, bitch.

Remember, "the first pancake is always the worst" ("or first," I don't remember what my 11th grade preCalc teacher Mr. Kolker used to say).

Sigh. I'm retarted.

Peace.

I Was Jason Fox

2007-02-26T01:17:00.000-08:00

Reading the following comics, I am positive I was Jason Fox when I was 10 years old. God, what a dork I was. See:

And this week of strips inspired me to start this blog:

Monday

Tuesday
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday
Saturday

It's too bad the creator of Fox Trot is semi-retired and only publishes his strip on Sundays now. Now that all the greats I grew up on are ending, I guess I have no excuse to carry the torch for my generation.

Peace.

OMG, LOL, BRB!!! But seriously, Mom, I'm dropping out.

2007-02-25T22:35:00.000-08:00

Mom, 12-27-2001 (former college dropout)

Really baring my soul here online for all to see, but whatever. It's all gold. This one's an AIM conversation I had with my mom right before I dropped out of school in March, 2001, almost six years ago.

AIM Conversation, March 18, 2001

SunnyUhOh (9:24:18 PM): hye!
Jnauman7 (9:24:37 PM): hello
SunnyUhOh (9:24:44 PM): where have you been?
Jnauman7 (9:24:51 PM): here
Jnauman7 (9:24:55 PM): in Iowa City
SunnyUhOh (9:24:57 PM): haven't seen you online
Jnauman7 (9:25:00 PM): oh
SunnyUhOh (9:25:07 PM): howz come?
Jnauman7 (9:25:10 PM): I don't use AIM much any more
SunnyUhOh (9:25:46 PM): why not? trying not to talk to anyone?
Jnauman7 (9:25:57 PM): sorta
SunnyUhOh (9:26:02 PM): why?
Jnauman7 (9:26:12 PM): only people I talk to online are my family
Jnauman7 (9:26:21 PM): and that gets boring
SunnyUhOh (9:26:25 PM): avoiding your family?
Jnauman7 (9:26:30 PM): a little
SunnyUhOh (9:26:35 PM): why?
Jnauman7 (9:26:38 PM): I dunno
SunnyUhOh (9:26:57 PM): what's going on, Jonathan. you in trouble?
Jnauman7 (9:27:12 PM): not really
SunnyUhOh (9:27:31 PM): not really . . .???
Jnauman7 (9:27:40 PM): ?
SunnyUhOh (9:27:48 PM): out with it.

Jnauman7 (9:27:55 PM): what?
SunnyUhOh (9:28:01 PM): what's wrong?
Jnauman7 (9:28:17 PM): I need to drop out of school
SunnyUhOh (9:28:25 PM): are you depressed? what???
SunnyUhOh (9:28:31 PM): uh oh. what happened?
Jnauman7 (9:28:37 PM): I need to withdraw this semester
SunnyUhOh (9:28:43 PM): why????
SunnyUhOh (9:28:50 PM): ohmygawd

Jnauman7 (9:28:57 PM): 'cuz my grades are terrible and I have no motivation to do any better
SunnyUhOh (9:29:04 PM): uh oh
SunnyUhOh (9:29:19 PM): well, what would you do if you were out of school?
SunnyUhOh (9:29:23 PM): go home to DBQ?
SunnyUhOh (9:29:27 PM): and watch tv?
Jnauman7 (9:29:29 PM): no, live with Joy
Jnauman7 (9:29:38 PM): and get a job at Copyworks or Technigraphics
SunnyUhOh (9:29:40 PM): and pay your rent with . . .?
Jnauman7 (9:29:43 PM): in Coralville
SunnyUhOh (9:29:59 PM): why are your grades terrible . .how terrible?
Jnauman7 (9:30:00 PM): or, if I had to, I could work as a server at Charlie's
SunnyUhOh (9:30:07 PM): what happened to make you feel like this?
SunnyUhOh (9:30:09 PM): Joy?
SunnyUhOh (9:30:13 PM): uh, yeah.
SunnyUhOh (9:30:17 PM): Charlies. right.
Jnauman7 (9:30:23 PM): if I had to
SunnyUhOh (9:30:29 PM): yeah.

SunnyUhOh (9:30:34 PM): what happened?
Jnauman7 (9:30:34 PM): 'cuz I'm sick of school
SunnyUhOh (9:30:46 PM): most people get sick of school at one point or another
Jnauman7 (9:30:48 PM): I have 111 credits, and I could've graduated this semester
SunnyUhOh (9:30:51 PM): you're almost done!
SunnyUhOh (9:30:54 PM): yea!

Jnauman7 (9:31:07 PM): and I want to apply to grad school in art, but I don't have anything to show
Jnauman7 (9:31:10 PM): no portfolio
SunnyUhOh (9:31:13 PM): so why don't you just stick it out then?
SunnyUhOh (9:31:20 PM): what about all your projects?
Jnauman7 (9:31:28 PM): and all we do in my art classes is do the TA's assignments
Jnauman7 (9:31:33 PM): we never get to do our own stuff
SunnyUhOh (9:31:37 PM): so? can't you use those?
Jnauman7 (9:31:41 PM): not really

SunnyUhOh (9:31:49 PM): can't you do your own stuff in your spare time? you've got plenty!
SunnyUhOh (9:31:56 PM): apply for a grant, then.
Jnauman7 (9:32:00 PM): not when I have classes to do
Jnauman7 (9:32:07 PM): and stupid assignments to do
SunnyUhOh (9:32:10 PM): don't give up yet!
SunnyUhOh (9:32:34 PM): how bad are the grades?
Jnauman7 (9:32:55 PM): grad schools don't want to see "make a transformed object out of wax" or "make a mask that symbolizes positive and negative"
Jnauman7 (9:33:01 PM): C's at best
SunnyUhOh (9:33:05 PM): ewww.

SunnyUhOh (9:33:17 PM): what have you been doing, then? I mean, instead of your classwork.
Jnauman7 (9:33:20 PM): I haven't done anything for my color photography class
SunnyUhOh (9:33:26 PM): why not?
Jnauman7 (9:33:43 PM): 'cuz we are supposed to decide on a semester project
SunnyUhOh (9:33:47 PM): and?
Jnauman7 (9:33:49 PM): and I haven't decided what to do yet
SunnyUhOh (9:33:56 PM): well, think of something.
Jnauman7 (9:34:00 PM): ....sure
SunnyUhOh (9:34:02 PM): do something dumb, they'll love it
Jnauman7 (9:34:08 PM): it won't work

SunnyUhOh (9:34:22 PM): geez, you sound depressed.
Jnauman7 (9:34:25 PM): and I really don't want to take the class anyway
SunnyUhOh (9:34:25 PM): I'm scared.
SunnyUhOh (9:35:31 PM): well, yeah. sometimes you have to follow directions. it's all part of the game.
Jnauman7 (9:35:40 PM): but I'm tired of playing it
SunnyUhOh (9:35:44 PM): I know.
SunnyUhOh (9:35:47 PM): me too.
SunnyUhOh (9:35:52 PM): but . . . we have to .
Jnauman7 (9:35:54 PM): it's not getting me anywhere
SunnyUhOh (9:36:05 PM): it will, though. eventually.
Jnauman7 (9:36:18 PM): if I play by their rules, I have nothing to show to get into grad school
SunnyUhOh (9:36:26 PM): hmmm.
Jnauman7 (9:36:31 PM): that's my whole point
SunnyUhOh (9:36:37 PM): who can you talk to about this?
SunnyUhOh (9:36:45 PM): can't you talk to one of your art teachers?
SunnyUhOh (9:37:48 PM): nobody really cares if you learn anything. they care that you did it.
SunnyUhOh (9:37:54 PM): employers, I mean.

Jnauman7 (9:38:03 PM): well, then I'll just get my degree in psych then
Jnauman7 (9:38:08 PM): I only need 3-4 classes
SunnyUhOh (9:38:13 PM): then do that.
Jnauman7 (9:38:19 PM): but I don't want to
SunnyUhOh (9:38:25 PM): what happened to your idea of going to Carnegie melon?
Jnauman7 (9:38:32 PM): I still want to go there
SunnyUhOh (9:38:40 PM): well, then that's your goal.
Jnauman7 (9:38:44 PM): but I need 25 slides to show them and an artists statement
SunnyUhOh (9:39:01 PM): and you have to do dumb stuff to attain your goals. always, it's a rule.
SunnyUhOh (9:39:06 PM): go there for psych then
Jnauman7 (9:39:08 PM): and I have nothing to show that reflects who I am, or what I want to do with my art
Jnauman7 (9:39:34 PM): except a handful of assignments and 2-3 sketchbooks full of ideas
SunnyUhOh (9:39:35 PM): then write a thesis about it, and why you aren't able to express yourself in your classes, that's why you want to go to carnegie melon
Jnauman7 (9:39:56 PM): right--'why I dropped out of school'

SunnyUhOh (9:39:57 PM): well, that oughta get you a grant, your IDEAS . . . shouldn't it?
SunnyUhOh (9:40:06 PM): DON'T drop out
Jnauman7 (9:40:13 PM): it's more effective that way
SunnyUhOh (9:40:24 PM): the busier you are, the more you get done.
SunnyUhOh (9:40:29 PM): what's more effective?
Jnauman7 (9:40:30 PM): I'll come back, I just need some time off
SunnyUhOh (9:40:38 PM): take the summer off
Jnauman7 (9:40:38 PM): to drop, and come back
Jnauman7 (9:40:41 PM): I am

Jnauman7 (9:41:05 PM): it's too late
SunnyUhOh (9:41:07 PM): yes
SunnyUhOh (9:41:11 PM): too late for what?
Jnauman7 (9:41:15 PM): to get my grades up
SunnyUhOh (9:41:19 PM): why?
Jnauman7 (9:41:43 PM): 'cuz I have a 2000 word paper due Wed.
SunnyUhOh (9:41:45 PM): I betcha if you talk to your instructors, they'll give you a second chance. Extra credit work or something.
Jnauman7 (9:41:48 PM): I just found that out today
SunnyUhOh (9:41:50 PM): so? you can write that
SunnyUhOh (9:41:57 PM): how come you just found that out today?
Jnauman7 (9:41:58 PM): no one gives extra credit anymore
SunnyUhOh (9:42:02 PM): haven't you been going to class?
SunnyUhOh (9:42:12 PM): how do you know? you need to talk to the instructors!
Jnauman7 (9:42:15 PM): 'cuz I haven't been to class in over 3 weeks, and just now looked at the syllabus

SunnyUhOh (9:42:34 PM): they've probably all been through this themselves. especially your psych guy, prof guppy.
SunnyUhOh (9:42:41 PM): THREE WEEKS????
SunnyUhOh (9:42:51 PM): what have you been doing??????
Jnauman7 (9:42:51 PM): I have't talked to him recently--missed the last 2 meetings
SunnyUhOh (9:42:57 PM): JONATHAN!
Jnauman7 (9:42:59 PM): sleeping and playing computer games

SunnyUhOh (9:43:08 PM): uh oh. sounds like major depression.
Jnauman7 (9:43:14 PM): probably
SunnyUhOh (9:43:20 PM): get some help1
SunnyUhOh (9:43:25 PM): call prof guppy
Jnauman7 (9:43:29 PM): I already know what the problem is
SunnyUhOh (9:43:32 PM): what?
Jnauman7 (9:43:43 PM): he doesn't know anything about clinical psych
SunnyUhOh (9:43:53 PM): so? he's probably had burn out before.
SunnyUhOh (9:43:57 PM): what's the problem?
Jnauman7 (9:44:01 PM): I don't feel motivated because I don't feel like I can do what I want to do
Jnauman7 (9:44:12 PM): like school is holding me back

SunnyUhOh (9:44:13 PM): what do you want to do?
Jnauman7 (9:44:30 PM): I want to get my ideas out of paper and into the world
Jnauman7 (9:44:43 PM): and have stuff to show, not just sketchbooks
SunnyUhOh (9:44:54 PM): I know, I know. believe me, I know what you mean, but school is one of the rocks in the road that you have to climb over.
SunnyUhOh (9:45:01 PM): but, doing the stuff costs money.

SunnyUhOh (9:48:22 PM): if you get a job, you won't have time to do your stuff.
Jnauman7 (9:48:27 PM): ok...I'm ready to break teh rules now
Jnauman7 (9:48:32 PM): maybe
SunnyUhOh (9:48:33 PM): or the money, b/c it will take all you get to stay alive.
Jnauman7 (9:48:36 PM): but we'll see
SunnyUhOh (9:49:01 PM): you can't break the rules until you've learned from them. and you haven't done that yet.
SunnyUhOh (9:49:11 PM): you're just burning out.
Jnauman7 (9:49:12 PM): why not?
SunnyUhOh (9:49:18 PM): sigh
Jnauman7 (9:49:18 PM): what else is there to learn?
SunnyUhOh (9:49:21 PM): TONS
SunnyUhOh (9:49:28 PM): especially in the REAL world
Jnauman7 (9:49:31 PM): I know how to write A papers, and get A;s in critiques
SunnyUhOh (9:49:34 PM): where you are headed.
Jnauman7 (9:49:38 PM): well, good
Jnauman7 (9:49:42 PM): that's what I want to learn
SunnyUhOh (9:49:44 PM): so? what's wrong with that

Jnauman7 (9:49:48 PM): I want to get into the real world
SunnyUhOh (9:49:56 PM): well, it's your life.
Jnauman7 (9:50:00 PM): ok
SunnyUhOh (9:50:05 PM): there's no safety net, sorry.
Jnauman7 (9:50:08 PM): that's fine
Jnauman7 (9:50:16 PM): I've had too many safety nets
SunnyUhOh (9:50:16 PM): have you talked to Jacob about this?

Jnauman7 (9:50:19 PM): no
Jnauman7 (9:50:25 PM): I've talked to Joy though
SunnyUhOh (9:50:28 PM): he went through a similar thing
Jnauman7 (9:50:31 PM): oh
SunnyUhOh (9:50:37 PM): and? see the trouble she got into?
Jnauman7 (9:50:49 PM): she knows why she's going back, though
SunnyUhOh (9:50:58 PM): can you take a light load? maybe? and spend more time at a job and doing what you want?
SunnyUhOh (9:51:14 PM): yeah, but truthfully, she probably wont' end up using her major.
Jnauman7 (9:51:24 PM): well, yeah
SunnyUhOh (9:51:53 PM): so . . . what's the difference? she's just emotionally scarred and finacially ruined.
SunnyUhOh (9:52:00 PM): a lot of good it did her.
Jnauman7 (9:52:05 PM): for what??
Jnauman7 (9:52:09 PM): dropping out of school?
SunnyUhOh (9:52:13 PM): uh huh
Jnauman7 (9:52:20 PM): I doubt it

SunnyUhOh (9:52:26 PM): doubt what?
Jnauman7 (9:52:28 PM): she says it was the best thing she did
SunnyUhOh (9:52:35 PM): yeah, and the scariest
SunnyUhOh (9:52:50 PM): you're not JOy, you're different
Jnauman7 (9:52:50 PM): what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger
SunnyUhOh (9:52:55 PM): whatever.
SunnyUhOh (9:52:58 PM): it's your life.
SunnyUhOh (9:53:07 PM): and you have NO experience with work.
SunnyUhOh (9:53:15 PM): good luck getting a job at Hardee's.
Jnauman7 (9:53:22 PM): I know, so maybe I won't end up ruined like her
SunnyUhOh (9:53:37 PM): uh, I think you're already headed down that road . . .
SunnyUhOh (9:53:43 PM): financially, I mean.
SunnyUhOh (9:53:51 PM): your loans will kick in in six months . . .
Jnauman7 (9:53:53 PM): I've worked at Sfikas, with dad for 4 years, in the med labs, and 1 year in an internship
SunnyUhOh (9:54:02 PM): you already are in trouble for your credit card . . .
Jnauman7 (9:54:07 PM): and I've taken notes online
SunnyUhOh (9:54:10 PM): so can you get a job at the University then?
Jnauman7 (9:54:21 PM): I thought about being a research assistant
SunnyUhOh (9:54:27 PM): well, that's an idea!
SunnyUhOh (9:54:34 PM): a GOOD idea!
Jnauman7 (9:54:41 PM): ok

SunnyUhOh (9:54:56 PM): at least at the University you can find people who know how to talk and stuff.
SunnyUhOh (9:55:14 PM): and know words with more than 2 syllables.
Jnauman7 (9:55:17 PM): but I kinda want to get into the real world
SunnyUhOh (9:55:26 PM): yeah, you need to do that, too
Jnauman7 (9:55:36 PM): while I can
SunnyUhOh (9:55:47 PM): so maybe you can do a reasearch assistand job plus a job at copyworks
SunnyUhOh (9:56:10 PM): you can probably get a loan for a car . . .wait. well, when you get your credit card problem fixed.
SunnyUhOh (9:56:21 PM): but first, you need the job.

Jnauman7 (9:56:22 PM): well, I need to talk to Joy about that
Jnauman7 (9:56:24 PM): yeah
SunnyUhOh (9:56:28 PM): about what?
Jnauman7 (9:56:40 PM): she owes me money that I need to pay my credit card bill
SunnyUhOh (9:56:47 PM): how much?
Jnauman7 (9:56:58 PM): $200+
SunnyUhOh (9:57:02 PM): aaaargh. NEVER lend her money!
Jnauman7 (9:57:11 PM): she needed it for rent
SunnyUhOh (9:57:16 PM): I know . . .but.

Jnauman7 (9:57:29 PM): I should've let her live on the streets, I know
SunnyUhOh (9:57:50 PM): she needs to learn how to manage her money.
Jnauman7 (9:57:57 PM): ok
SunnyUhOh (9:58:05 PM): she coulda got it from grandma
Jnauman7 (9:58:19 PM): doubt it
Jnauman7 (9:58:26 PM): that's your answer to everything
SunnyUhOh (9:58:29 PM): why? all she has to do is ask.
Jnauman7 (9:58:41 PM): there's a little something called pride
SunnyUhOh (9:58:46 PM): I know.
SunnyUhOh (9:58:50 PM): I understand that.

SunnyUhOh (9:59:28 PM): sigh
SunnyUhOh (9:59:39 PM): so what are your immediate plans?
Jnauman7 (9:59:57 PM): I'm going to find out what I need to do to withdraw from my classes
Jnauman7 (10:00:08 PM): tomorrow I'm gonna call the registrar
SunnyUhOh (10:00:08 PM): who do you have to talk to? your advisor?
SunnyUhOh (10:00:19 PM): what happens to your financial aid then?
Jnauman7 (10:00:27 PM): I need to get a card and get it signed by financial aid and the registrar
Jnauman7 (10:00:36 PM): that's what I need to find out
SunnyUhOh (10:00:44 PM): then call them tomorrow

SunnyUhOh (10:03:23 PM): hmmm. can you ask guppy?
Jnauman7 (10:03:40 PM): I really don't want to work for him anymore
SunnyUhOh (10:03:41 PM): well, that's a start
SunnyUhOh (10:03:44 PM): why not?
Jnauman7 (10:03:46 PM): it's boring running experiments
SunnyUhOh (10:04:06 PM): uhhhhh . .. . isn't that what a research assistant does?
Jnauman7 (10:04:19 PM): well, but these experiments are pretty boring
SunnyUhOh (10:04:31 PM): everything gets boring eventually, jack.
Jnauman7 (10:04:43 PM): ok
Jnauman7 (10:04:50 PM): and then you change jobs
SunnyUhOh (10:04:52 PM): you gotta find your satisfaction outside of your work.
SunnyUhOh (10:05:02 PM): well, sorta
Jnauman7 (10:05:13 PM): 'till you find the right one
SunnyUhOh (10:05:15 PM): I know. I"m not a good example.
SunnyUhOh (10:05:20 PM): well, yeah
Jnauman7 (10:05:20 PM): the one that doesn't feel like a job
SunnyUhOh (10:05:28 PM): not sure it exists
Jnauman7 (10:05:44 PM): we'll see

SunnyUhOh (10:05:45 PM): you gotta find one that will allow you to grow and expand on it.
SunnyUhOh (10:06:01 PM): well, I'm gonna let you go for now.
Jnauman7 (10:06:10 PM): ok
SunnyUhOh (10:06:13 PM): If I don't see you on the tooter tomorrow, I'll be calling you.
SunnyUhOh (10:06:14 PM): ok?
Jnauman7 (10:06:18 PM): ok
SunnyUhOh (10:06:22 PM): you ok?
Jnauman7 (10:06:26 PM): yeah
SunnyUhOh (10:06:28 PM): sure?
Jnauman7 (10:06:31 PM): yes
SunnyUhOh (10:06:34 PM): ok.
SunnyUhOh (10:06:45 PM): I love you, kiddo. and I trust your judgement.
Jnauman7 (10:06:50 PM): ok
SunnyUhOh (10:07:09 PM): you'll make it. and you're right, it's time to get out of your shell
Jnauman7 (10:07:16 PM): I know
SunnyUhOh (10:07:19 PM): just be CAREful.
Jnauman7 (10:07:22 PM): I will
SunnyUhOh (10:07:30 PM): don't burn any bridges.
Jnauman7 (10:07:39 PM): I'm not sure what that means
SunnyUhOh (10:07:41 PM): be assertive
SunnyUhOh (10:08:03 PM): TAYL
Jnauman7 (10:08:39 PM): Bye.
SunnyUhOh (10:09:11 PM): BYE. TTFN :'(

I dropped out of college the next day, and it was the hardest thing I've ever done. I used to have recurring dreams about being trapped in an undergrad class, taking a final exam that will be the magic ticket to an A and a degree if I can just fill in two bubbles with my #2 pencil...oh, wait, where's my pencil? In my pocket? Lemme check...oh GOD NO! I'M NOT WEARING ANY PANTS!!! And then my mom wakes me up and tells me it's time to get up and go to school. Well, those dreams are over, buddy.

Mom, I'm not going to school today. I'm dropping out. And I'm never going back. The real world is far more fun and educational than the University of Iowa, or any school for that matter. I'm working on my Ph'd in BS from the University of Life now. My thesis is on the working class male in his twenties. You can read it when it gets published.

Me and Professor Gupta, 2001

Peace.
[ed.-seriously, though, I wuv my mommie! But I'm not going back to school.]

My best friend wanted to be a Muslim rapper. Now he's a business man.

2007-02-25T16:40:00.000-08:00

All through the nineties I had this friend named Moe Sinno. I met him in seventh grade, but never talked to him since he was the kind of kid that sat in the back of the bus. When I signed up for lessons at the Dubuque Karate Club to boost my confidence, I met Moe the first night. It seemed like fate that we both started lessons that night, and both shared at the time a passion for Bruce Lee films which later developed into a passion for hip hop music.

When the time came for both of us to earned our yellow belts, we were best friends. Now I got off the bus at his stop and hung out as his house after school until my mom came home from work to pick me up. I remember Moe's house was decorated like a museum and always smelled like hummus. I had to watch were I stepped to avoid disrespecting his prayer rugs with my dirty feet, and there was a new smell around each corner. His dad, Abdul, was a Professor of communications at Clark College in Dubuque and director of Radio Lebanon in Beirut who fled Lebanon during the war in the early 80's. The Sinno's had seen a lot of shit, and had worked hard to afford their upper-middle-class lifestyle in Dubuque.

By junior year of high school, Moe was my best and only friend. We pledged to avoid Prom and the "temptations of women," including the allure of AOL.com, since it conflicted with the true teachings of Islam. But when the Sinno's bought their first Cadillac, Moe got the old-school white 1988 Oldsmobile Delta Eighty-Eight as a hand-me-down for his seventeenth birthday. We cruised around town listening to Bone Thugs N Harmony's new hit "Crossroads" and telling us how great we were since we had religion unlike the other Catholic students at Hempstead we went to school with. Moe and I imagined ourselves on an escalator moving upward, with the other students going down. "See you at the crossroads," we'd say as we blew past them on our way to class.

Moe said his true passion was to become the first Muslim rapper. He listened to Bone Thugs constantly, and even recorded a few tracks with his brothers [ed.--I remember he called himself Big Peace, and his two younger brothers Middle Peace and Little Peace] at his dad's communications studio at Clarke. At the time I thought he was crazy for trying to follow his dream.

In college I lost touch with Moe. He started going by his middle name Rafic, because he said he was just named Muhammad because it was tradition for the first born son to be named that. Now that he's grown up and dedicated his life to "international business" or whatever, he introduces himself as Rafic Sinno. I came back from my second year of college ready to tell him I finally realized my true calling is art, but by then he no longer cared for art or music. Bone Thugs was just a phase. That is where Moe and I left off.

I hope Rafic is happy and successful. I haven't talked to 'Moe' since 2000. I googled him and found out he's in South Dakota, at some business school. I wonder what he is up to. Maybe I'll email him tomorrow. Nah, who am I kidding. I probably won't. We're too busy following our dreams.

I want to dedicate this song to Big Peace
aka Muhammad Rafic Sinno

Bone Thugs N Harmony "I Tried" (featuring Akon)

[Intro]

Bone Thugs, Akon...yeah
You know though, nothin' come easy, you gotta try real, real hard
I tried hard, but I guess I gotta try harder.

[Chorus]
I tried so hard, can't seem to get away from misery,
Man I tried so hard, but always be a victim of these streets,
It Ain't my fault cause I, try to get away but trouble follows me,
And still I try so hard, hopin' one day they'll come and rescue me,

But until then, I'll be posted up right here rain, sleet, hail, snow (hail snow)
But until then, I'll be posted up right here with my heat gettin dough (gettin' dough)

[verse 1]

First, let me explain that I'm just a black man,
And I come from the dark side, so I'm havin a hard time stayin on track man,
My mind be racin', and I don't even know what I'm chasin yet
Been in and out of relationships, I'm startin to see that it's me where the complications at,
But I'm layin back, prayin' that, you get that piece of mind of me
I thought I was right, but really I'm wrong, but again I was too blind to see,
I was in the fast lane chasin my dream,
And then it seemed when the fame and cash came, they just got me,
Goin crazyyyy, (lately, lately) lately I been so faded trying to erase it,
But I just can't cause the drama just grows greater,
And I been in so many collisions by puttin' shit off till later.

[Chorus]
I tried so hard, can't seem to get away from misery,
Man I tried so hard, but always be a victim of these streets,
It Ain't my fault cause I, try to get away but trouble follows me,
And still I try so hard, hopin one day they'll come and rescue me,

But until then, I'll be posted up right here rain, sleet, hail, snow (hail snow)
But until then, I'll be posted up right here with my heat gettin dough (gettin' dough)

[verse 2]

It's like I'm takin five steps forward, and ten steps back
Tryna get ahead of the game but I can't seem to get it on track
And I keep runnin away the ones that say they love me the most
How could I create the distance when it's supposed to be close? And uh,
I just don't know but I be out here fightin demons and
It's like the curse that I can't shake this part of Cleveland and
Lord, would you help me? And stop this pain
I keep inflinctin on my family (family)
Hustlin and gamblin, drinkin' and scramblin'
And losin sight of what I supposed to be handlin'
It's hard to manage cause every days a challenge and man
And I'm slippin can't lose my balance and tryin not to panic

[Chorus]
I tried so hard, can't seem to get away from misery,
Man I tried so hard, but always be a victim of these streets,
It Ain't my fault cause I, try to get away but trouble follows me,
And still I try so hard, hopin one day they'll come and rescue me,

But until then, I'll be posted up right here rain, sleet, hail, snow (hail snow)
But until then, I'll be posted up right here with my heat gettin dough (gettin' dough)

[verse 3]

I see thangs won't change (wont change) I'm stuck in the game
As soon as I get out it keeps pullin me back man (pullin me back man)
Got me doin' dirty dirt, so used to this hustlin money,
That I don't understand no nine to five work
Studied on the streets, hustlas know what I mean
Thugstas ballin' before us I'm tryna make that major league
So we never leave never till the sun came up (came up)
Gotta get it nope, no leavin, no grudge (no grudge) today games they play gotta go hard to get what you put in, if you fall off then its all on you (on you) gotta watch what you sign too, try so hard but I won't act a fool.

[Chorus]
I tried so hard, can't seem to get away from misery,
Man I tried so hard, but always be a victim of these streets,
It Ain't my fault cause I, try to get away but trouble follows me,
And still I try so hard, hopin one day they'll come and rescue me,

But until then, I'll be posted up right here rain, sleet, hail, snow (hail snow)
But until then, I'll be posted up right here with my heat gettin dough (gettin' dough)

May the two Bone Thugs live on. Moe, see you at the crossroads... 8'^/

Peace.

You Must Not Know 'Bout Me / Boddhisattva in Training

2007-02-24T00:56:00.000-08:00

Y'all are probably wondering, after reading a few of the articles on this blog [ed.-Do I even have readers?], who is this John Nauman, guy anyway. Each post he seems to be a different version of himself--which one is the real John Nauman? Well, if you're not wondering it, you should be. I am.

And you know what the answer is? I don't really know who the real me is just quite yet. That's why I'm stuck in this dead end job; that's why I'm not a famous writer just yet. But, hey you know what? I'm 27. And in the month since I've started this blog I've learned more than I ever thought I would know about myself. I tell you what, it takes a hell of a lot of courage to put all kinds of crazy pictures of yourself on the web accompanied by personal stories and invite others to take a look. But I still don't have enough courage to be the ultra-personal guy I am on this web page in real life. It's crazy. I'm a working class wallflower by day, and an internet stripper by night.

***

I just keep thinking what would be left of me if I died tomorrow. What would be left of my work? I've been thinking about this ever since the near-fatal car accident I got in about two years ago on the way to my great-grandmother's funeral in Maquoketa. I keep thinking about it to the point of obsession. I get nervous just riding in the passenger seat anymore. It's not death that scares me, but the idea that I will have died with most of my greatest work not even half-finished, but never even started. I really have nothing started. Nothing. Nothing aside from the thoughts inside my head [ed.-And on this "virtual tombstone" called Blogger], which would rest with me forever when I was dead. It's morbid to think about this so much, but it's part of who I am. My naked humanity exposed for all to see.

I keep reminding myself it's my own fault if people don't know the real me, not theirs. I haven't been open enough to share who I am. I need to move my ideas out of my head and into the real world; I need an audience...But I'm getting better one day at a time, letting little pieces, little "secret" characters of my mind escape as I get more comfortable with what I'm doing. Just imagine if I continue on this path, how great I could be in six months, a year, two years, five years, ten years, twenty years....Hell, in twenty years if I've kept this up and grown as I should, it'd be a miracle if I'm not famous. 20 years is a hell of a lot of time to grow--I'd be 47, almost twice as old as I am now. Imagine who I'll be then. Just take it one day at a time. Teach the world what I know. Whew...I'm happier now. See.

Laughing Buddha

Bo·dhi·satt·va [boh-duh-suht-vuh]
–noun Buddhism.
a person who has attained prajna, or Enlightenment, but who postpones Nirvana in order to help others to attain Enlightenment: individual Bodhisattvas are the subjects of devotion in certain sects and are often represented in painting and sculpture.

Compare Arhat.
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)
Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006

Peace.

I Had too Much to Dream (Last Night) / "I almost slept with Helen of Troy"

2007-02-22T22:26:00.000-08:00

That last dream was so fun, I think I'll do another. Kinda like a deleted scene on a dvd, or a double dip. So here we go, from the same notebook:

Date: Sunday March 31, 2003
Title: “Hell and of Troy”
Location: My apartment

I dreamt that I was a Dominos delivery guy who was delivering three pizzas to an apartment building. When I rang the door, I offered the pizzas to a heavy-set man who answered. But when the man pulled the pizzas out of the red pizza warmer, he tilted them upside down, making all the toppings stick to the top of the box and ruining the pizzas. The man was furious, and refused to pay for the pizzas, even though it was his fault. When I looked again at the man standing in the doorway, I realized he was Satan, although he still appeared to be a normal middle-aged man. I told the Devil he could have the pizzas for free, if he would make a deal with me: he would have to let me sleep with the most beautiful woman in Hell.

I wrote up the contract, and contacted several lawyers I knew in order to make it legit so I couldn’t be trapped in some lousy loophole by the Devil. I wasn’t going to fall for the old “be careful what you wish for” bullshit. I was a little worried since I felt the lawyers were, by nature of their profession, already on Satan’s side. I also asked the Devil to pardon my sin of premarital sex that was about to occur, but he said it wasn’t his place to do that sort of thing, and told me to talk to God about that.

We signed the agreement in blood, a fiery downward spiral opened up on the ground, and I fell down it to Hell. But once I was in Hell, my task wasn’t so easy. Satan refused to tell me who the most beautiful woman in Hell was—I had to figure that out for myself. To make matters worse, Satan said if I made the wrong decision it would nullify the contract and I would be trapped in Hell forever. I decided to round up the few women that were around me, and carefully ranked them in order of appearance. However, the most attractive woman in the group certainly wasn’t the most attractive woman I could imagine in all of my dreams. I then realized I was in fact in a dream, and proceeded to conjure up the woman of my dreams. But it wasn’t so easy. The more I tried to conjure the woman of utmost beauty naked in front of me, the more I slipped out of the dream state. I knew that if I woke up, the deal would be off. Heck, I might even wake up in Hell if I wasn’t careful. So that route wouldn’t work.

Then I began to think of what I read in high school in my world literature class. I thought of Dante’s descent through Hell and all the other stuff we read about Greek mythology. And then it hit me. The most beautiful woman in Hell must be Helen of Troy! It made since: the similarity of the words (Hell= Helen) and the fact that she was most beautiful woman in the world in Greek mythology. But the fact occurred to me that Greek mythology was just that—a silly myth. Certainly Helen of Troy couldn’t exist, and certainly if she did she would be on top of Mt. Olympus with Zeus, not in Hell.

But then I suddenly thought of what Christianity said about false prophets--that they were evil, and led people away from the one true God. So certainly Greek mythology was a tool of the Devil, and therefore Zeus and all the gods were false prophets along with Helen of Troy. So she must exist and she must therefore exist in Hell as well. Problem almost solved, I asked the women to raise there hands if they knew a woman in Hell more attractive than Helen of Troy. Two women raised their hands. I then restated the question: “Do any of you know of a woman, other than yourself, in Hell who is more attractive than Helen of Troy?” None of them raised their hands, so I knew I was on the right track. I wandered through Hell and finally met up with Helen. She had radiant long red hair which was braided and tied up with a magnificent gold hairpiece. She had matching gold bracelets and a beautiful long white toga-like dress and sandals. I knew it had to be her. But as I approached her and embraced her in a kiss, the dream faded away, and I woke up in a cold sweat. I never got my chance with the most beautiful woman in Hell, and had to settle with trying to find the most beautiful woman in the real world to sleep with instead.

Hope you enjoyed it. I think I'll have to get my own show like Sarah Silverman some day, then I can turn this dream into reality. Hey Sarah--give me a call.

Peace out.

I Had Too Much to Dream (Last Night) / "Operation: Iraqi Basketball"

2007-02-22T22:13:00.000-08:00

I Had Too Much to Dream (Last Night)

As long as I can remember, I've been a lucid dreamer. I've always been able to remember the majority of my dreams, and most of the time have varying level of control over what happens in them. For those not familiar with lucid dreaming, Wikipedia defines it as: "the conscious perception of one's state while dreaming, resulting in a much clearer (lucid from Latin, lux "light") experience and sometimes enabling direct control over the content of the dream, a realistic world that is completely in the control of the dreamer."

For a few people like myself, this ability to control a dream happens naturally, but for others it is a skill that can be learned, much like learning an instrument [ed.-My mind is my instrument. I practice eight hours a night.]. The first step is to improve dream recall; you may be having lucid dreams already but forget them the next morning. The next step is to practice what are called "reality checks" throughout the day while you are awake: for example, one reality check is to read some nearby text, look away, and re-read the same text. If it doesn't change, you are probably awake. If the text looks garbled or changes, then you are definitely dreaming. Now comes the fun part. You simply have to visualize what you want to happen in the dream and it will happen. It takes practice, but in a few weeks you'll be flying high in no time.

So that's how you lucid dream.

Nowadays, I don't have very many lucid dreams. It's not because I'm out of practice, I simply choose not to control my dreams anymore. Instead, once I realize I am dreaming, my mind becomes focused on remembering the dream and analyzing it for meaning, if any. This way my dream recall is near 100%. I've been a professional dreamer ever since I dropped out of college six years ago. Now I have a notebook full of dreams that I've recorded. Here's one of my favorites:

Date: Saturday March 30, 2003
Title: “Operation: Iraqi Basketball”
Location: My apartment

Last night I dreamt that I was the coach of the American basketball team facing off against the Iraqi basketball team in a game which would decide the fate of the current war. The crowd was eerily calm, and the players were very focused. It was forbidden for anyone to show any emotion, lest a fight break out. There was no cheering or applause, just the sounds of the basketball bouncing and sneakers squeaking. After all, this game was supposed to be a replacement for the war, not the cause. However, at one point, a tall player (I wasn’t sure what team he was on) dressed in a white uniform was dribbling the ball and lost it out of bounds. He walked over to the sidelines and screamed in the direction of the people on the bench (not at them in particular). He then grabbed a towel and walked to center court where he put the towel over his face and dropped to his knees, raised his arms and screamed up in the air. The game continued, and I continued to sleep, and unfortunately never learned the outcome of the game. That’s the last time I watch CNN before I go to bed.

Hmm, I wonder what the dream means....I can't even begin to imagine what would happen if I tried to change the events of that one.

Sweet lucid dreams. See you on the other side.

Peace.

Employee of da month

2007-02-22T20:54:00.000-08:00

Yo, yo yo, wazzup? I was thinking today that I've been listening to too much Sixties folk music lately. I signed up for Live365.com Radio a couple months ago, and have been addicted to the Radio Vietnam channel. It's like Good Morning, Vietnam sans Robin Williams, which is a huge plus. But the music is starting to get to me; I've become too nostalgic. I long for a time when music told political stories and everyone was high. I'm sure the Acid Movement was great while you were up, but just like living in post-9/11 America, life's a bitch when you come down.

So I've been following the example of people I work with. Most guys on the line want to be white rappers. I keep telling them: "You're from Iowa. You're not hard," but they don't listen. Who can blame them? Hip hop is hot right now; folk music is a thing of the past. I do like some hip hop, though. I like this one Muslim guy, Akon, because he reminds me of Muhammad, my best friend in high school from Lebanon who wanted to be the first Muslim rapper. I respect black guys like Akon who are telling their story while playing around with the genre. But Clint and Dapkeo (and myself) are no Akon. White people from Iowa probably shouldn't even try to rap. It's not our thing. My motto has always been be yourself. My parents were Christian hippies, so folk music comes naturally to me--I grew up with Simon and Garfunkel.

The problem is we have to figure out how to give white people a voice again in music to tell their stories without co-opting other cultures. It's a tough challenge. John Mayer might be breaking the mold for other white guys to follow. Mayer is the new Eminem. Eh, what can I say. Clint, Dapkeo and I grew up in Iowa during the age of Eminem, and Midwestern people are always behind the times. Maybe they should start listening to "M.C. Crew Member of the Month, September 2006." Maybe if I start rapping, then they'll see how silly we all look:

Employee of Da Month

Working at the Lob
Cuz it's our job
Sparkin' mad rhymes on the line
We all work overtime
We all work overtime

Clint's got the flint
Thinks he's hot shit
Colorado Cowboy, without a gun
He'll show you how it's done.

Working at the Lob
Cuz it's our job
Sparkin' mad rhymes on the line
We all work overtime
We all work overtime

Dapkeo will show you how
To be hip now.
Yellow Chocolate, he ain't black
But gonna bring Laos back.

Working at the Lob
Cuz it's our job
Sparkin' mad rhymes on the line
We all work overtime
We all work overtime

John is my name
Jokin' is my game
Workin' Class hero?
Ha. Just another zero

Working at the Lob
Cuz it's our job
Sparkin' mad ryhmes on the line
We all work overtime
We all work overtime
We all work overtime

See, I can't rap either. But everything must start with a decent story, bitches. So shut up and listen.

Peace out, bitches.

Power to the People / Now we're all equal

2007-02-22T13:02:00.000-08:00

It's great to see former political slogans being used to sell fake sugar. This is what I'm talking about: The Spirit of the Sixties is dead, and it's become a corporate commercial joke used to sell products to the Baby Boomers, like a digitized dead Fred Astaire selling vacuum cleaners. [ed.-Great, now whenever I watch old films of Fred Astaire, I'll picture him dancing with a Dirt Devil.] The sad truth is my kids in the future won't remember the original, since nothing is sacred in corporate America. "Power to the People? Oh you mean Power to the Packet, right? Like that Equal slogan." You've gotta be kidding me, son.

Power to the Packet

Power to the people,
Now we're all Equal.
Like dextrose in a glass,
Our time will soon pass.

Power to the people,
Now we're all Equal.
The sixties are dead,
And so is your head.

Power to the people,
Now we're all Equal.
It's all been done,
So stop your fun.

Power to the people,
Now we're all Equal.
So let's rally on,
Yeah, right, come on.

Power to the people,
Now we're all Equal.
"Dust in the Wind,"
Here comes "The End."

Power to the people,
Now we're all Equal.
Like dextrose in a glass,
Our time will soon pass.

Peace. They can't take that word, I'm not done with it yet.

Working Class Zero

2007-02-20T22:21:00.000-08:00

I never thought I'd be working as a line cook at a popular seafood restaurant in Iowa [ed.-Fresh seafood in Iowa? How is that even possible?] at the age of twenty-seven. The way my generation was raised, I thought I'd be President of the Universe by now. But what my hippie Christian parents forgot to tell me was not everything is possible with love and support. You need a balance of love and discipline to grow up a fully-functioning adult. Oh well. My time will come.

Working Class Zero

As soon as you’re born they tell you you’re great
A unique individual, not worthy of hate
Till working class jobs are your only fate
A working class zero is nothing to be
A working class zero is nothing to be

They love you at home and they praise you at school
Say you can be the biggest fish in the pool
They tell you they trust you—no need for no rules
A working class zero is nothing to be
A working class zero is nothing to be

Now they’ve raised you and praised you for twenty-some years
Then they leave you alone to pick your career
Now you’re all alone, you’ve got nothing but fear
A working class zero is nothing to be
A working class zero is nothing to be

Keep you up with their pills, their drinks, and TV
Now you think you’re so clever, so witty and free
Till you crash all alone and need therapy
A working class zero is nothing to be
A working class zero is nothing to be

They’re room at the top, they are telling you still
Now you must learn how to get up that hill
But you’re left at the bottom, so swallow your pill
A working class zero is nothing to be
A working class zero is nothing to be
If you want to be a zero, then don’t follow me
If you want to be a zero, then don’t follow me

But you’re left at the bottom, so swallow your pill
But you’re left at the bottom, so swallow your pill

It's time for me to take my medication now.

Peace.

Gettin' a little heavy...

2007-02-20T16:49:00.000-08:00

Wow, that last post was a little heavy. I need to take it down a notch before I get carried away with this little blog thing. I looked on wikipedia for info on Mark David Chapman, and I got really scared because I bear a striking resemblance to the guy. I love John Lennon and Hunter S. Thompson; hell, I want to be them someday. I was just saying they're dead now, which is the truth. Like a pheonix rising from their ashes, I want to continue the path they started. That's all I was saying.

Whew. I feel better now. But I do have to say, in my defense, Mark David Chapman ain't half bad lookin'.

Peace out.

Jonathan Robert Nauman

All the great minds are gone

2007-02-20T15:44:00.000-08:00

Hunter S. Thompson died two years ago today, and Gonzo journalism may have died with him. It's a shame, because he really is an underrated author. Too bad he did too many drugs to make a lasting difference, since no one I can see has risen to take his spot.

John Lennon is dead. He's been dead for a while. The title of this blog comes from a famous John Lennon song titled "Working Class Hero" from the 1970's album John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band. Some of the more radical working class may have loved Lennon, but Lennon was not working class--"Keep you doped with religion and sex and TV, and you think you're so clever and classless and free, but you're still fucking peasants as far as I can see," is not the words of a working class peasant [ed. --we're all peasants]. Lennon's are the words of an arrogant asshole who's time has passed: Hunter said in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Lennon was "ten years too late" with his solo political debut "Power to the People." In my opinion, Mark David Chapman thought Lennon was, in the terms of Holden Caulfield, a phoney so he shot Lennon in the chest. Hunter S. Thompson shot himself in the head with a shotgun at age 68.

I'm like Lennon and Thompson. I got bored with college, so as I dropped out to find myself and enter the working class. I try to stay down to earth, and champion the new working class. Eventually I might lead a paradigm shift in conciousness of the working class and we will call ourselves the New Age Folk. Right now I'm still searching for the truth, trying to figure out where Lennon, Thompson, and the Sixties went wrong so I don't make the same mistakes they did. I want to be the next "Working Class Anti-Hero."

Since Thompson and Lennon are both dead now, I guess I'd better give this revolution thing a try now before it's too late.

Power to the people, new age folk.
Power to the people, get back to work.

Peace.

My Generation Loves Jager

2007-02-17T01:33:00.000-08:00

In high school I took a photography class led by a hippie named Ed. One of the assignments was to take a picture that we felt summed up our generation. Well, a couple of days ago I bought me a Canon A630 from Best Buy on my break, and I decided to test out my camera and try to sum up what I felt about my generation.

The above image is one of the better shots I got in my one bedroom apartment. My freezer is bare, save three trays of ice, a bottle of Jagermeister, and two ice cold shots of Jager on the shelf below. The whiteout effect of the flash and the blue tone make the picture feel cool in more ways than one.

So I think this photo does a good job of summing up my generation: hip, cool, but all booze and no food.

I'm just talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-generation.

I think Ed would give me an A, don't you?

P€@ç€

Will the real Mr. Lonely please stand up

2007-02-14T21:51:00.000-08:00

I was thinking the other day, literally yesterday, that most line cooks don't have girlfriends. I don't know if it's just something about us, but none of us usually have steady girlfriends. There's this one guy, Antonio, who has a seventeen year old girlfriend (who works here too), and he's 26 or so, but that's the only exception. It just reinforces to me why I love these guys, and why I work at the jobs I do even though I don't have to.

Today Petra, the Culinary manager, asked all six of us line guys [ed.-It's unheard of to have a six man line on a Wednesday night] if she was interrupting any of our Valentine's Day plans. We looked at each other to see if any of us did, and then we realized it was a joke.

Of course not. Line cooks fall into several predictable categories: those who despise Valentine's Day because it's a neo-fascist corporate holiday designed to sell greeting cards, those who could get a girlfriend but don't because they'd rather "play the field," and those like me who just don't care one way or the other. We're a noble breed, we line cooks. An entire generation of man-children raised by corporations. We drop-outs love food, and the camaraderie of working together, but we need direction. It's ironic that the love of a good woman could provide some tender care when needed. Someone to admire our cuts and our burns, someone to cook and clean for us because we're just too damn tired from doing it all day to do it ourselves.

And that's why we don't have girlfriends. Women think we're sexist, but most of us are just simple-minded males who haven't had anyone direct them. A few of us don't need direction, a few like to play the field. And a small minority of us wonder why he ever chose to work with a bunch of monkeys in the first place.

But I love my job, I do. But please, don't patronise me with a "HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!!!" today because I don't want to hear it. I'm too busy cooking your food to care what day it is.

Peas.

!Viva Wikipedia!

2007-02-14T00:04:00.000-08:00

I love the Internet. It's an incredible source of information, just incredible. Imagine twenty years ago if you told a bunch of professors and scientists every computer in the world would be connected to each other: every library, every school, every database would be connected on one virtual hard drive called the world wide web. They'd say it was one of the greatest achievements in the history of humankind, and that people would naturally get smarter and smarter just by osmosis of web surfing.

And here we are in 2007, and I'm putting this up on the web right now, and I just can't help but think of how stupid people are. Still. I read a George Carlin quote on Wikipedia that said: "I think I figured out why Americans are so stupid. Think about how stupid the Average American is. Well, HALF of 'em are stupider than THAT!" I think it translates to the world of the Internet as well.

But it doesn't have to be this way. We have the best resources in the history of humanity right now, but we aren't using them to the fullest. Wikipedia should be HUGE. Bigger than Microsoft. But it will probably never happen. People are too busy adding last second updates to Anna Nicole Smith's article reminding future generations "On February 8, 2007, Smith was found unresponsive in a room at the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Hollywood, Florida. YEAH THAT FAT PIG IS FINALY DEAD!!" lest we lose those vital tidbits to the ether that is the information superhighway [ed.-god, I always hated that phrase]. Ah, but what can you do. Eventually the idiots who were fascinated by vandalizing an article on a recent celebrity's death will move on, and one would hope, grow up. With any luck, they will vandalize Rachel Ray's article next month.

Peace.

Introducing the Red Lobster All Stars!

2007-02-12T19:03:00.000-08:00

I think I just thought of an incredible idea for a new cartoon show for Adult Swim. It's going to be called the Red Lobster All-Stars. It's gonna be part South Park, part Aqua Teen Hunger Force. It'll star all three of us as roomates living in one house working the line at Red Lobster by day and having all kinds of crazy adventures while we try to become famous at night. Clint will be the guy who smokes, Dapkeo the guy who drinks, and I'll be the guy who does both. Clint and Dapkeo will hate each other, because one's a white rapper and the other's an asian rapper. And I'll step in cool everyone down and tie everything together in the end. "Relax, man. Smoke, drink, whatever. Were all the same color on the inside," will be my catchphrase. And guys like Herb and D can come in for comedic relief and do guest spots. Oh, and I almost forgot: Byron will be the crazy neighbor next door. It'll be awesome.

I'm gonna go pitch it to [adult swim] right now. See you in Hollywood.

Peace.

Wait...Milios AND Pizza Hut for Dinner?

2007-02-12T18:09:00.000-08:00

Wow, I really screwed up today. I'm realizing now I have absolutely no time perception. I used to be able to tell time just by turning on the tv and seeing what show was on, but not any more. I was so feverish from hunger that I couldn't tell it had only been twenty minutes since I submitted my sandwich order to Milios.com so I went ahead and ordered a pizza from PizzaHut.com as well.

And not fifteen minutes after I ordered the pizza, I heard a knock on the door. "Can they cook and deliver a pizza that fast," I remember thinking as I opened the door and saw the Milio's delivery guy. Oh shit. The money on the couch was for the pizza, not the sandwich, but I was so shocked at seeing the sandwich guy I couldn't remember how much money I was holding in my hand at this point. I had to quickly shuffle the bills around: "five-ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen...ok, just take out one five...that'll be eight, yeah, that's still a decent tip...whew, that was lucky; glad I didn't have to ask him for change," I thought. The man shook his head, and grudgingly accepted my tip. "Damn, thought I was gonna get an awesome tip," he probably thought.

I shut the door and looked at the clock. 5:37. Ok, if I ordered at 4:54 then that's about forty minutes or so for a lousy sandwich. I was pissed off. Not so much at Milio's, but at myself for not waiting long enough. Now I still had a pizza coming, and it was definitely too late to call and cancel. And now I had to ask for change from the pizza gal because Milio's had FUBARed my money situation. I had three twenties and a one. And the bill was $10.75. Thirteen dollars was a decent tip, I figured. I'd give fourteen but that seems so close to fifteen, I always think the delivery guys are thinking, man just give me the extra buck. It's almost as bad as tipping $19.75 instead of just a twenty. But now I was screwed. "Lemme see...20 minus 13 is 7, so I ask for seven dollars back. I hate to do that, but oh well. It's not my fault Milio's took so long," I think as I hand her the twenty and ask for change.

So in the end I paid $21 for half sandwich and two pieces of pizza for dinner. But I guess this way I'll have leftovers for the next few days, and when I eat that last piece of pizza two days from now, I'll be reminded of the value of patience and not ordering online when you haven't eaten all day.

Peace out.