My Weekend

Well here's my going's on. I don't have any great insights today. I never do, but I like to pretend that when I set out to write these things (blog. Blog? That damn word...) I have an idea of where i'm going to go with them. This creates the illusion, in my mind, of a great plan; arching ideas where the reader intently leans against his/her elbows, eyes illuminated, brain racing trying to keep up. You all weep. You all cry. You all clamor for more. I hope this really does happen. That would make me say the word blog.

So last night I finished Running With Scissors. It was awesome, and made me only think, after I was done, "Why can't I write a book then?" Then I realized that my life wasn't his and I wasn't gay and my childhood stories are like laffy taffy jokes compared to Augusten Borroughs' stories. But it still made me want to write a book.

Then this morning I officially switched showers to the secondary shower. I couldn't help it. The old shower is a demon. It's a scary monster and I'm afraid of it. I feel like my grandma who's scared of the dvd player. I don't know how it works, I don't know how to operate it, and I'm certainly not the one in control. So I stole all of my things from it and went to the other bathroom. It's like bliss. The lighting is even better. It's like showering in a rainforest, tropical paradise. I'm in love. And slightly scared of what the old shower will say.

On the way to work this morning my mom said, "BURN IN HELL JAMES FREY!!!" over the phone. Yelled it. I couldn't agree any more.

Tonight Natalie and I will be seeing Girl Talk in Salt Lake. This is awesome to me.

Tomorrow Natalie, Liz, and I are all going trick or treating in the dorms. Liz is dressing as Margot Tennenbaum. I should have been the Baumber. I remember back in the summer I had actually SAID OUTLOUD that I wanted to be Richie. I think it's when I saw some cool glasses and a tennis racket. I just remembered that right now though. It's ok, my costume is great anyways. Natalie and I are being Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald. We've got classy clothes and a bottle of Welch's 1975. It'll be an affair to remember. Then after that we're all heading up to Salt Lake to see Rocky Horror Picture show, as done by the latter-day transvestites. I wonder how they're voting Prop 8...

So this is my weekend. We'll see how it goes. I'm sure it'll go awesomely. But maybe our Suburban will flip or I'll break my leg again or something. Somebody pray that doesn't happen. Not me though. I'm not praying that. Then it gives God the idea. Then I'm goin' down.

Today has no point. haha. Except for Girl Talk. Doin' time. Wastin' mine.

Voting is titillating

Voting is the tits.

That's right. There's nothing more sexy, more appealing, more ENDEARING than the right to vote. There's nothing bigger and brawnier than a strong bicep pulling down that lever in that curtained booth. There's not one thing better in my mind than knowing that your vote goes to a representative in the electoral college of my state, who will then vote for the person he thinks is best (probably the party that paid him off). There's nothing better to me than not knowing who the hell I actually am pulling that lever for. And there's nothing better than knowing I'm gonna vote me some local politics.

You see, earlier today, after a very disparaging conversation with my older, purportedly wiser brother, I was distraught. He told me I couldn't vote because I didn't mail in my ballot by yesterday (he was wrong, I am wiser). He then told me I was out of the family. Incensed, I made a call. A call to my EFFING CONGRESSMAN. He answered the phone and looked up my information like a little lap dog.

And yes, I am eligible to vote. This is probably one of the most significant elections in my immediate history. And in case you were wondering; I'm voting Obama/Biden. And then I'm voting Bennion Spencer.

And then I'm eating Gandolphos and laughing and laughing and laughing all the way to the nonexistent bank.

I'm Learning... I'm growing.

Provo is gorgeous right now. There’s not a cloud in the sky, the mountains are nice dusty little friends next door. I had a fun morning. I was up at 2 AM watching kung fu movies in Spanish and making pork chops. I went to bed and woke up at about 9. I made some delicious toast, slathered in chunky peanut butter and honey and cinnamon. Damn it was a good morning. Then I went to 7-11 down the street to get my daily 44 oz of Diet Coke (don’t judge). I even bought a shrimp lime cup-o-noodles (don’t judge). And then, I locked my keys in my car. And I was kind of pissed off. But then I sat outside for an hour and half and just enjoyed Provo. I never knew there were so many homeless people. Natalie’s been telling me for a long time to get a spare key to put under my car. I knew she was right; especially when the homeless black guy told me the same thing. He yelled at me to duct tape a key up there. I loved that guy because he knew JUST how to small talk. Sincere long laughs and then a pat on the shoulder to say goodbye. I think that comes with age, knowing how to talk to people like that. Homeless people are so awesome to me. I sat on the curb after I found a locksmith to call; I sat there with my cup o noodles and my big gulp and tried to look homeless. I wanted people to think it so badly. I’d love to be homeless sometimes. You see so much. Man.

So then I sat there on the curb and I saw a lot of cool things. I saw a funny bike and I saw a man with three Mexican women that were laughing really loudly and he bought them groceries, but looked very ashamed through his small smile. I saw Obama getting gas. He looked just like him. I saw people in very worn shoes and ill-fitting dress shirts getting on buses to go to work. I saw people calling about jobs. I saw a man with a walking stick and very nice clothes followed by a guy with a mustache and a can of soda walk into an alley to a research place. I got to just sit. Finally the guy from the pop-a-lock company showed up in his beautifully emblazoned truck. I don’t understand why every locksmith company gives their workmen a big truck to drive around in. They only have about 2 tools they use. It just seems silly to me. But he came in his huge truck and performed the fastest door jam service I’ve seriously ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot (Austin).

So all in all, my trip to 7-11 took about an hour and half. It cost me a little over 40 dollars. But I like to think of it that I paid to make myself sit still and enjoy the city a little bit. And I saw some cool stuff. Like a helicopter.

Of course, this all probably would have been more interesting if I hadn’t done the same thing about a month ago. I don’t deserve a car.

Blockers of the blue.

I like my blueblockers. A lot. I like them because I put them over my face and they make my hair sweep over the tops of them and they keep things out of my eyes. Like blue. I like them because I can look at a lot of things and they look entirely different than they would normally. Normal colors don’t exist. Things are far more cut, lined, edged. It’s like someone took the world and made every detail finer. With my glasses on I don’t have to worry about a lot. In fact sometimes I get so caught up on wearing them that I’ll realize that I’m driving or something and get instantly scared because… wow, I’m driving. I could hit something. I could run off the road. I could die. This is a side-effect of these glasses. You get so caught up in how they rest against the bridge of your nose and your forehead, in the way that the colors everywhere seem to turn off and on, that you forget where you are or what you’re doing. I like them because people look at me and see big reflective amber plates where they’re supposed to be able to read me. I like them because nobody else has them. I like them because they feel like a friend. I think other people should find something like this that they have in their life. Headphones, an ipod, a pillow, a book, a journal. Some small semblance of who they are that they constantly need near them or on them to help define them. A little placard explaining themselves and what they’re about. A Hello My Name Is sticker. Maybe this would make finding friends easier. You could look at a person and their thing, their one thing, and you could say, “That’s interesting, tell me about it.” You could ask, “What do you write about in that journal?” or “what do you find in that bottle?” Or “What do you carry in that backpack?” And then we could all show each other what we find in our things; I’d put my glasses on your face, and you’d put your headphones in my ears. I’d sip from your brown bag and you’d spill all the books and ink pens and drawing pads out of your back pack. I’d even show you my rock collection. I think that would make the world a little easier to get along with. If we were all just a little more interested in each other’s insides.

My fabulous driving record. (Dear God don't let my mother read this)

Before I moved to this state, I thought of myself as a particularly good driver. I was in control, but daring. I could make moves other people only did so unawares of the danger that would befall them if they failed to perform perfectly. I did fishtails on wet kentucky backroads blasting Jack White. I also caught a car on fire, blew an engine going 90, and ended up in a field with a few friends after we forgot to break for a stop sign (I wasn't driving... but I did yell a lot).

Ok, I wasn't the greatest ever. I'm not Bobby Labonte ok! (If you were wondering, I'm getting a tattoo on my forearm. That's what it says)

But the thing is, since I've been here, I'm the king of motor vehicle infractions. Just last night I got pulled over for a tail light AND a headlight being out. This was, in fact, my second ticket in 24 hours. I awoke to a tasty yellow envelope trapped beneath my windshield. Apparently I had parked across a sidewalk. I looked to my left and right, at the two cars parked in red line spots, and then across the street at the two trucks parked near hydrants and in front of a driveway. No yellow slips. I'm the lucky one I guess.

So I've got two tickets. But that's not all. All of this transpired within the month where I got towed at 3 AM and walked 10 blocks to the impound lot to pay $150 dollars to get my car out. I also hit a pedestrian. I hit. A pedestrian. My car literally hit a girl as she attempted to cross the street. Here's the thing. This happens daily. This is a combination of factors.

1) The drivers here, inexplicably, are more wild and dangerous and TERRIBLE than I am. It's true. I'm not just saying that. They really. Really are. This means that I'm too busy watching THEM to watch you; you slow, backpack laden, snoody Idaho dwelling street crosser. Back off.

2) The pedestrians have a magic power. It's called instant crosswalk. See a street? Is it busy? Do you NEED to cross right there at THAT CERTAIN intersection? Is this the quickest way to the HFAC? Well, look at this! A crosswalk has appeared. You can't see it? That's ok. It's there. Oh is the light green? It's midday traffic in uptown Provo? Is 900 as congested as possible? Perfect, time for me to walk boldly across this street. I swear, it's a deathwish. You aren't protected by your garments or by God's divine love. You're a person walking across a 35 (45) mph street. Act accordingly.


I almost hit people daily. I almost crash everytime I get in the car. I'm scared out of my wits at night to park ANYwhere. It could be an empty street, devoid of hydrant, stop sign, or cross walk with no redlines or driveways or even sidewalks. I'd be afraid. Afraid for my life.

And I'm also pissed off. I've got 5 days to pay this parking ticket. 5. The back of the ticket nicely lists options for payment.

1) I can pay online. I just have to go to payprovo.com. But, of course, this means that I'll need to know the exact way to fill in the online request. I put in the infraction number (do I include the parenthetical number? Maybe...). I also put in my license plate number. Or my VIN number. My license plate number doesn't work, no matter what combination of numbers, letters, state abbreviations, and spaces I add. I look on the ticket to find the VIN number. It is oddly, and frustratingly, not present.


2) I can call in the ticket and pay it over the phone. I've called 85-court approximately 12 times. Nobody picks up. The voicemail box is full. I... don't get it.

3) I can bring it in. I can bring it to the people who are apparently too lazy to pick up the phone or update the website.

4) I can mail it. Does the mail really make it to the designated place in 5 days? Especially over the weekend? Really? No. It does not.

Apparently my options have been limited to bringing it in. So I've got to go find this sucker, hand them my money, and then leave serviced.

Thank you Provo PD. Now fuck the police. do not cross

Damn son!

You’ve got your salted cashews, your lightly salted peanuts, your dry roasted peanuts, your crispy pumpkin seeds, your gummy bears, your runts, your mike n ikes, your boston baked beans, your hot mango, your gummy orange peel slices, your pistachio nuts, your mucho fiesta delicious fun bag, your sour balls…

Standing in line at the 7-11 down the road from my house I’m watching the Indian guys talk to the irish truck drivers with the white stock boy helping the Mexican coffee buyer. I’m driving in my car thinking about how some people really complain about this place. How there aren’t any Ethan Allens or paneras or hip coffee shops or cool places for all these kids to go and look cool. But I think that’s bullshit. I attribute that to the hipster ideal that interest is dead and indifference is ironic and nobody knows if knowing anything is worthwhile. I think that cool is being interested in experiencing the local flavor. I think it’s a beautiful mix we have here. An old town from the early nineteen hundreds that basically stopped developing somewhere in the 50’s. All the houses are those nuclear ranches with big locust trees out front and basements with walk in steps and there are still Sinclairs here with the box pumps. People take that for granted. We have a rich mezzo American culture here. Indian (feathers), Mexicans, English, Germans; those predominant cultures prevail here establishing a weird mix of suppressed Mexican and native American pride, that really only comes out in the some 30 or so Mexican restaurants that peddle half real food to half interested white college students. I say give up the game. Give us real Mexican culture. In fact, unleash it all. There’s a growing Indian (dots) population growing here too. The latino culture needs to embrace them; the latino, mezzo American, Mexican American, latin American whatever you want to call it. Everybody needs to get together and stop giving a shit. Have the Day of the Dead festivals in the middle of Center street. Hold Sego up the road at Pioneer Park. Let the Indians have Hopi dances across State Street. Let the Buddhists and the Hindus pray silently and then dance wildly through 900. Germans go ahead and prost all over town. Irish, fife and dance and punch each others teeth out. I want one big stereotype orgy and I want it now. I want to watch as this town explodes with culture and all the bored white college kids pick up a sari or a kilt or a trash bag poncho and stop caring about anything. I want all the hobos who sit on parkway with their sleeping bags and their bottles of liquor and their walking stick to sit back on their heels and smile at everything. I want them invited into homes and I want them to not steal anything and I want them to leave quietly in the morning and to hike up to Heber to tell everybody about it, and I want these valleys to bloom into big garish color displays of celebration and fall. I want a harvest dammit. Break the pavement into slabs. Bust the windows of cars. Kiss in stairwells and set up wires that criss cross town from window to window, sending gifts and baskets and flowers and cheese to friends and people we don’t know. Just do something instead of being bored and not giving a shit anymore. Celebrate, winter isn’t here yet.

Sometimes I wonder whether or not the minorities here pretend to be different ethnicities. If the Indians put on name tags that say "Juan" when their real names are "Chiraq" or "Dixit." I wonder if anyone notices but me. I wonder if it's a way to abandon everything you've been and where you come from. I'm making a name tag right now that says "Jamaal Washington." I'm testing this out.

I'm over it

I got over my unpleasant experience that occured a few minutes ago. Mainly because I found this on the internet. And I think that this is best marketing I've seen in awhile. Better than those shoddy microsoft "I am a PC ads." Better than the new Burger King ads. These are great. This one is exceptional.