12.17.2009

Dear Rachel Dratch,

What follows is my Best of 2009 playlist. It was tough figuring out exactly what came out this year because we had a number of hits lingering that were released in 2008, and we have a strict rule that best of songs must be released in the year that we are celebrating. Thus, no Britney or Beyonce. But I bent my own rules a bit by including Gaga's "Pokerface" simply because it didn't rock my world until August, and well, I wanted to celebrate how behind I am. Enjoy.

1. Whitney Houston "Million Dollar Bill"
2. Kim Zolciak "Tardy For The Party"
3. Camera Obscura "French Navy"
4. Yeah Yeah Yeahs "Heads Will Roll"
5. MSTRKRFT feat. John Legend "Heartbreaker"
6. Gossip "Heavy Cross"
7. Kandi "I Fly Above"
8. Lady Gaga "Pokerface"
9. La Roux "Bulletproof"
10. Black Eyed Peas "Outta My Head"
11. Kelly Clarkson "I Do Not Hook Up"
12. Lily Allen "The Fear"
13. Lady Gaga "Bad Romance"
14. Rye Rye feat. MIA "Bang"

While this is not comprehensive, there just weren't many songs that got my junk moving. I don't care for Drake. I wanted to include a Ne-yo song, but he was released in 2008. Whatever. I just came to dance.

Jon

12.1.2009

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I'm making another bag of popcorn. Don't judge me.

My job has me helping people find clothes that fit them and that they love. A personal shopper if you will, and you must because that is my official name. I am also responsible for having in-store events where small and large groups come in and spend their money. Tonight we have some folks coming in, and they're looking for clothes that are interview appropriate.

We were told to dress business casual. I completely understand what that means, I used to be an office plebe. I would spice it up by sometimes throwing on some Jack Purcells with my wool pants. But I also understand how to dress for interviews because I have had both interviews and got jobs from these interviews. I was instructed by the lady who dresses our mannequins that I might not want to wear my slim pants. As she said this, she looked down at my pants and added, "No denim either."

I wasn't sure how to take this. Most people appreciate my sartorial choices. I also feel like we all express ourselves through our clothes, and I sort of refuse to feed into white men's conventions of workplace dressing. I didn't say any of this. Instead I said, "Oh ok. What should I wear?" Little did I know, this question would send me into a tailspin that would plague me the rest of the day.

Generally, I feel confident when I get dressed. And clearly, someone else does too if they hired me to outfit people for a living, right? Something about what this lady said made me feel a little out of it, like "Do I really know what business casual means? Do I actually have clothes that would reflect this?" To me, I don't think about calling a style of dressing anything other than "Look fly". I would say that is my style mantra. I'm not trying to do "cocktail casual," "white tie," or "southern gentleman chic".

Ok, so I decided that maybe I should get some pants that are not so skinny. I don't do the kind of pants that are more like leggings or running tights, but I do have a number of skinny pants. Interestingly enough, I have been considering filtering in a few more slim but not skinny styles back into my repertoire so I saw this as an opportunity to get something new that clearly reflected something missing from my wardrobe. And we got these new navy chinos in last week, and there was only one pair in my size.

Clearly, those pants were mine. But then I figured since I was sort of doing some shopping that maybe I should take advantage of my discount and get a shirt or two. This is where it got a little insane. I thought I wanted one shirt, then I found this other one. Then I thought maybe I only want one, then I thought well you need to treat yourself sometime, you've been working hard. Then I thought, well I don't really need any of these shirts and then I put them back. Then I grabbed them again and went to the register.

I was not done wavering. Not having a job will really make you question what you spend your money on. I really enjoy eating and paying my bills, so it makes sense that that is where my money has gone the past few months. I stood there at the register for a few more minutes deciding whether I needed all of this or none of this. I waited for it all to get rung up to decide that I only wanted the pants. That was fair, I really do have quite a few shirts and these new ones I was thinking about are mere clones of things I already own. Then the idea popped into my head that maybe I should go check out the Polo kids section at a department store and see if I could get some kind of deal. I had some money burning a hole in my pocket, and it was starting to hurt. Hurt bad.

The kids section clearly speaks my language. After buying the children's t-shirt a few months ago, I was convinced that maybe I could fit back into kid sizes again. Why not save myself a few bucks and get a better fit? What didn't seem to click is that it still costs money to buy clothes, whether they are for children or not. I feel like that thought didn't enter my head because I was still reeling a little from that weird interaction with the lady that made me feel like a frump or something.

I found one shirt that I loved, I tried it on and bought it. I walked around a little more, in a sort of daze kind of like, "Um, what the fuck is going on!?" This happened another time when I was pulling into a parking place and I was feeling a little sleepy. There was something about the intoxicating feeling of the heat in my car and the fact that I was real sleepy that had me end up running into the car next to the spot I wanted to park in. Here, that intoxicating feeling made me buy this child's size shirt. I will say that it did fit, but that is beside the point.

When I made it out into the parking lot, but before I got into the car and hit anything, I decided to just take the shirt back. I do not need any more clothes and I did not get that good of a deal. I told the guy that I found something else. It was the same guy who rang me up just minutes before. He seemed so sad, both times. He was working all alone, and then to have one of your few sales result in a return would make me sad, too.

What may be so weird about all of this is that every day I tell people, "You should really treat yourself. Get yourself something!" And when it comes to buying things for myself, I am becoming a bit of a scrooge, when I was once Imelda Marcos. Or maybe Michael Jackson. It does have me wondering if this is a sign that I will one day end up on What Not To Wear, like all those women who dress crazy and who don't buy things for themselves, or take care of themselves. I still bathe and regularly get a haircut! And I still have clothes that look good. I won't end up on that show, will I?

No. It's just really hot in here and I need nap.

Hope you are well.

Jon

11.24.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

A couple things. First, I just ate a bag of popcorn. I should not eat corn. But it was calling me, especially after reading this article. If you read it it should not make sense why I ate the popcorn. But I love that stuff, and it does not love me. I need to throw out the other bag.

I recently downloaded the T-Pain app for my phone. Having never been a real fan of his (I did try to love "In Love With A Stripper" but I hate strippers), I was intrigued by the autotune part of the program. We've been having fun recording impromptu songs about the dogs or making rice--all over original beats provided by T-Pain. I have since tried to record other original songs, including love songs and ballads and today, rap.

First, I just started singing into the phone, something to the tune of "Tea for Two". That did not sound like a hit in the making, so I proceeded to check out the original T-Pain songs that came with the program. But before I did this I recorded the first verse of Salt-n-Pepa's "Shoop". Apparently I did not need the autotune there because there were no effects on the recording, which really takes all the fun out of it! The program includes his hits "Stipper" and some other random joints. I picked "Stripper" to try. I used the intro to just say "Yeah yeah You haven't heard it like this before" a couple times. The words were coming up on the screen, but I couldn't bring myself to talk to some lady about her thighs, and I couldn't keep up. At all.

Then the verse started. I know it seems like this is a bit of a slow song, but the verses are very quick, don't make sense, and don't rhyme. They are basically him just kind of talking fast, but not in a rap kind of way, just in a weird way. I could not keep up so I ended up doing some jazz runs and some scat-style vocal noises. Needless to say, I did not make a very convincing cover of "In Love With A Stripper".

It seems like nearly anyone these days can just crank out a hit about anything. Maybe I'm just stifling myself and my creativity. The song about rice was kind of hot. But I am no T-Pain.

Jon

11.5.2009

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I have spent the last month entirely ignoring writing. I've realized that over the course of my life there have been times that I go completely under the radar, I go underground. You won't hear from me for between four and six weeks unless you call me. For some reason, I don't respond to emails or voicemails, I don't call anyone, either. Most of the time these weird periods are probably prompted by something, I couldn't tell you what, though.

In early August I got fired. It was both the most incredible thing and the most shaming thing to happen. I was excited because my job had grown stale, and my full growth had been reached, and sometimes I need a swift kick to the pants to get my shit together and get moving. But being fired also made me feel real bad. It was like all the possible negative things I thought about myself were true. I did the whole DABDA grief thing--denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance (this is where my degree in psychology comes into play). And now I'm back.

As it turns out, the place where I worked before loved me, as have all the other places I've ever worked. They took me back immediately. So during the past few weeks, I've been working hard and doing it BIG. I've been listening to a lot of Whitney and Janet--and not just new stuff. I've been taking it way back, to "Whitney" and "janet." I have found myself thinking to myself, "Geez. Music was so good back then. What has happened!?" I think my coot-ish tendencies are beginning to emerge. Okay, some of them are not new. Just the other night we were folding sheets and I said, "This is how we do it. Like this!" And I was only half-joking. I like to think I'm pretty laid back about many a thing, but there are some things, like the folding of things, where I get a little crazy. We all have our something.

This past weekend we had a great time in San Francisco. I saw our friends Laura and Maura, who are always fourteen barrels of laughs. Both my abs and my cheeks were sore from all the laughing. When we got there, we skipped the hotel and went immediately to dinner. Seeing them sitting there at the bar, as we walked by, was so exciting! We hadn't seen each other since May or so, and it was just like no time had happened. None of us are from San Fran, so we were all kind of crazy being in this new place. But all of us getting together, I think, brought us all a sort of gravity that allowed us to feel comfortable in this weird place.

I realized that I may be staunchly East Coast. Sorry Snoop. San Francisco is a beautiful city, no doubt. But at the same time, I'm a little like "What does it have that I can't get without a seven hour plane ride?" What it had was Maura and Laura, and we will go anywhere for them!

As I'm writing this, I am feeling a little like I don't know where this is going. I should go get ready, get this day moving. Don't expect the next break to be as long as the last one. For reals.

Adios por ahora.

Jon

9.28.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am sitting here watching "Dancing With The Stars". I haven't really watched it before, except for a few times in grad school when I would be stuffing my face with spaghetti and needed something for my eyes to do while my belly did all the work. I get the appeal--clearly, we love watching people compete in things like singing, dancing, modeling, being a tool. I need to now reroute where this was going to go--I must admit I am really into the routine Melissa Joan Hart just did. I have sort of loved her since we only knew her as Clarissa.

Remember when she got all fat and had babies or something? Or when she appeared in that Britney Spear's video "Crazy"? I wonder if she has had some kind of relationship with Britney, through all the shaved heads and umbrella attacks. Wouldn't that be something if Ms. Joan Hart and "Crazy" had become and stayed friends? If so, I hope she was involved in the intervention process. Maybe she would pull some tricks from her Sabrina sleeves, using the cat or something to tear Jayden and Brayden, or whatever the other kid's name is, away while distracting Britney while daddy Jamie took them to a safe house. Who knows. It's weird that both of these women, who were sort of at the top of their respective games a good ten years ago, continue to be within the range of some sort of celebrity. I guess all it takes is a couple dozen donuts and the ability to dance, which begs the question: why am I not a celebrity!?

I have been so tired lately. I drank a diet Mountain Dew a couple hours ago and I am so sleepy! It's so interesting to me when I tell folks that our drank of choice is diet Mountain Dew. They judge and judge. But it tastes so good! And it's less harmful that coffee, I think. We once tried to purple kind, Ultraviolet. It comes out purple, and the carbonated part is blue. It's so crazy. That did kind of make me question the life choices I was making at the time, but then I just chug-a-lugged and I was over it. I bet that one has a lot of chemicals in it, though.

Just wanted to drop a quick note. I hope you are well, especially after Jenny Slate said fuck on last week's Saturday Night Live. I hope that gets you guys at least a few more viewers after Justin Timberlake crazy takeover last season. By the way, can we do something about him appearing this season? Like maybe not have him appear. That new haircut does nothing for me other than remind me of his "Bye Bye Bye" days. And I'll admit, "No Strings Attached" is N'Sync's masterpiece. But his hair was not. See what Lorne can do.

Jon

9.23.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Clearly, I've been gone for a minute. I haven't really been doing much lately, but my creative juices have been a little stagnant it seems. What's weird is that my social calendar has exploded over the past two or three weeks; maybe this is where most of my time has gone? I don't know how or why this has happened because all my friends are in grad school, so shouldn't they be doing work or something? Not that I'm at all complaining. In fact, I love it. When your friends get all bogged down in work, you don't get to see them often. So I am trying to take maximum advantage of their availability.

Another weird thing that has taken place happened last week. For some reason I decided I needed to hear some Toni Braxton. So I had a Toni Braxton music festival for a couple hours. It is striking to hear how her voice has changed since she first diva'd onto the scene. Where she once sang for real for real, over time she has taken to just sort of gutturally groaning. Because she was never one of my main ladies, despite my owning of most of her albums, I don't really care that her voice has changed. I do care about that weird disease or condition she came down with in the recent past that caused her to cancel some of her Las Vegas stint. I mean, I want no one to fall ill. I don't really know what else to say other than the music festival was a little random because, hello, who even knows Toni Braxton's name these days. Apparently I do.

We are in the middle of Fashion Month, with New York wrapping last week and London finishing yesterday. I am considering adding some fashion commentary here because let's face it--it is one of my obsessions. You already know about Whitney and Janet, and probably already know about my obsession with bathrooms. We will see. I also have a mildly-ironic, but mostly not obsession with Gloria Estefan, as in I cannot listen to "Coming Out of the Dark" without crying a little as I think about that bus accident she had in the late 80s that almost killed her. That woman is a survivor. She is no Tina Turner, but Mrs. E has seen it and come into the light. Despite appearances, my feelings toward Gloria are no where near the height of my feelings for these other things. And I talk about her often.

Geez, my biggest obsession right now is probably Kim Zolciak's "Tardy for the Party." I am not even only ironically interested in this song, I am honestly into it. It is a jam, as in the kind of jam that I also sincerely enjoyed like "Mambo #5" and Marky Mark's "Good Vibrations". I realize these songs are all kind of dumb, and maybe even a little weird, but geez-oh-pete, they get thangs moving and swaying and the next thing I know I am late getting somewhere because I had to take a shower because I got too sweaty dancing around the house. Anyway, this song is hott and I think you would be hard pressed to think otherwise. At least it's no "Tightrope".

I guess that's all I have to say. I'll try to write back sooner.

Jon

9.14.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

The following is a list of questions currently plaguing my brain:

1. I was listening to some Toni Braxton today, and all I could think about was trying to figure out what happened to her. She started out with such a nice voice, good songs, she titillated us with "He's Making Me High," made our hearts cry with "Un-Break My Heart." And then she kind of decided to only wear bras and panties and sort of growl. So what happened to Toni Braxton?

2. My friend Harry sent me this link to this bizarre video of Tyra Banks. Why won't she answer any questions about why Twiggy and Paulina left? Set. The. Record. Straight. Please. Also, her new "natural" hair is a nice look. I think that in this video, the new hair allows us to see her brain working, because the look on her face is one that somebody may make when they have shit themselves. I don't know this from experience.

That's all I got right now. Despite all this "free time," I can't manage to write you. I will be back asap, promise.

Jon

Oh, P.S.
I watched Whitney's interview on Oprah today. It was both revelatory and insane. I laughed out loud several times, nervous laughter though. It was almost too real. But I've been in a Whitney mood since then. So I made a playlist. The following is a warning: the bass on "My Love Is Your Love" is intense, so make sure you turn it down when you're jamming. Okay. I'm Out.

8.29.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I don't know about you, but I am kind of a fashion nerd. I know obscure facts about designers, I read about a thousand magazines a month, and my new obsession is reading fashion blogs written by eighth graders. It's insane that these children are taking to the internet with their own fashion nerd-dom and getting some hardcore press about it. I am mostly talking about this child, Tavi.

She is insightful and interesting in ways that I know I wasn't when I was her age. It blows my mind. But it does all make me feel better about being obsessed with things that so many other people make fun of or simply hate. But I will tell you, like that scene involving cerulean blue in "The Devil Wears Prada," we are all affected by fashion.

The Gap has been struggling the past few years to find their voice in today's market. Are they going to be a place where you can find more affordable knock-offs of runway clothes, or are they going to return to their root of denim and chinos and tees. I still don't know if they know. But the current campaign featuring all their new fits of denim got me a little excited. I will say, The Gap was my first taste of fashion. I bought this crazy plaid old man jacket than I subsequently returned because I didn't think it was wholly appropriate to wear in seventh grade. And I was a little afraid of being beat up for wearing it. But nonetheless, I needed more and more.

I've always kind of supported The Gap because they do have great things. There was a while there where I wanted everything they had. This was probably ten years ago now. Somewhere along the way, they lost their footing and their taste. It all became cheaply made, yet still kind of cute. But cheaply made. And their prices did not match the quality they were trying to pawn off on us. Then Patrick Robinson came around, maybe two or three years ago, to take over and reimagine the entire brand. This is where all these new fits of jeans come in. He realized that The Gap is all about great basics, so he and his team went back to the drawing board. What resulted is six new fits and styles for women and seven for men. I, naturally, was most interested in the skinny. I would not categorize my style as anything hipster, but I do love some skinny jeans. Thus, I was excited about The Gap finally having a version that was called skinny and actually fit well. They have been trying to sell "skinny" jeans for a couple years now, but they more capably fit Dumbo. Clearly not skinny.

I had been to their webpage to read all about these new jeans. As the September magazines started to arrive, there were little foldouts in every issue, promising that they would have a fit and wash for every. single. person. Awesome. I wanted to know more about the skinny jean, but the website said it was only available in stores. So I went to the store.

After two or three walk-throughs of the sales floor, I could not find anything called skinny jeans. I asked the dude who seemed to work there. Which I should not have had to do. If you are rolling out an entire new denim line and it is being advertised EVERYWHERE, the least you could do is be excited about showing them to me. He was a little sleepy, so I let it slide. "Do you guys have the new skinny jeans?" "No, we don't carry those in stores." "But they just came out this week!? And the website said they would only be available in stores." "I know, I'm sorry. But we have something else you might want to try." "Oh that's cool."

Patrick Robinson. This goes out to you. I wanted to try these jeans, and I probably would have bought them if they were great, and I really wanted them to be. But they weren't there. What are you doing!!?? I was excited about this, I want you to do well. I love jeans. And the fact that I became a little obsessed with these means your marketing is doing its job. But they weren't there.

Maybe this should all just go to show me that sometimes stepping back a little and breathing, maybe not being so obsessed with clothes and such might help. But I really blame this on the marketing scheme. There were videos, and ads, and billboards, and signs. All of that did get me excited. I wanted to support The Gap, and The Man. I love corporations! But I can't do it if there is no product.

I know I addressed this to you, Rachel, but I wonder if some of the world's teenage fashion bloggers might have some insight. I mean, The Gap did it for me when I was their ages. Who knows. I'm going to go sit in my Levi's and stare at the wall.

Jon

8.25.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

There is a haunted mansion in Savannah, GA that is said to be something like the most haunted place in all of the United States. It has been known to cause you pain in your groin, it is so haunted. The real kicker here is that there is a mysterious staircase that appears some times to some people, and not at other times to other people. In fact, even two people viewing it at the same time may only result in one of them seeing this staircase. Such was the case with Ben and his friend Sarah. He saw the staircase.

We were talking about this haunted staircase this evening, and I raised what I feel to be a very valid point--how can a staircase be a ghost? It is not undead. It was not ever alive. How can you or a house be haunted by the ghost staircase? If is it only the ghost staircase that makes this house the most haunted place in America, I am confused as to how exactly it works that this staircase can in fact do hauntings.

I guess I believe in ghosts. There was once this lake we had to swim in at camp, and sometimes I could feel very cold spots when other spots were very warm. Was I experiencing a haunting? I like to think that it was more me experiencing the result of some kind of contamination or the changes in temperature exist because of acid rain or it is a by-product of global warming. But you know how they say ghosts always make the space around them very cold? Maybe I was experiencing a ghost. I would just move to the warm spots because those cold spots made me very uncomfortable.

But I don't know if I can say that water can exist as something "haunted" and then turn around and say that something as un-alive and inanimate as a staircase could not be haunted. I wonder if the staircase moves around at night, all Marley style like "A Christmas Carol". I imagine that would sound like earth quakes, and would in result in a little more than some groin aches. Which brings me to this--THIS STAIRCASE CANNOT BE HAUNTED!

Perhaps there is someone who is haunting this house that moves the staircase back and forth depending on who is doing the leering from the front door. It could operate like those giant staircases they use to get to the top shelves at Staples and Office Depot, maybe it's all on wheels. But that is really giving this haunting thing too much credit. I've already disavowed the theory that that lake from childhood was haunted due to the actuality of it being contaminated by something of some sort. So this staircase also cannot be haunted because it is a staircase. Case closed. Right?

What do you think? Is this worth pursuing? Should I devote some if not all of my current state of free time to researching this phenomenon? Let me know.

Jon

8.20.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Yesterday I saw this lady in the street. We are sort of acquaintances, I suppose. We greet each other. She always talks about how cute our dogs are. Her dog is a bit of a beast, so I don't really say anything. I know neither her name nor her dog's. But we greet each other as if we hang out all the time, or something. She seems nice. We've been living here over a year and I don't feel appropriate asking her her name. Is that bad?

There is a similar situation with a couple down the street. They also have a dog. And this dog loves our beagle. I mean, he is awesome. But this dog loses her shit, lays down in the street or the dirt, gets on her back, and proceeds to attempt to seduce him every time she sees him. I think if dogs had a mating dance that it would look like this. These two ladies are super sweet and they always ask about my job and how things are going, and we exchange that sort of pleasantry. They each have a name, which they have told me. And I even said when this happened, "I was wondering if it was too late to introduce ourselves after we've been greeting each other for so long!" She said no, so it was cool. But that was like five months ago. I know their collective names, but I don't know which name matches which person. Is this bad?

All of this makes me think of what might make me a really bad person. During my sophomore year of college I lived in an on-campus apartment. Looking back, it was no where near as insane as my last two years which I spent on a residence hall, complete with freshman and creepy RAs. But it seemed so weird at the time. I lived with two brothers and a friend of mine. The brothers were okay, they liked to play video games a lot and one ate dinner alone by candle light. And by candle light, I mean a big fat candle with three wicks. But they were nice and put up with my incessant Lil Jon music playing.

My friend decided he was going to do an internship or something, so he would be moving out. He never told me any of this. We might have had a falling out related to my eating of his roasted turkey or when I flipped my shit about someone drinking my orange juice that was actually hidden behind the milk. I may not have been the best roommate, but he could have told me he was leaving! I come back from winter break, knowing my friend is gone, and wondering if we were going to be getting a new roommate. Oh, one weird thing about these apartments is that the rooms were seriously eight-by-eleven. I could reach the computer, fridge, and door all from my bed, which was nice but also a little weird.

We ended up getting a new roommate. He was moving his stuff in, and I greeted him, told him my name, asked if he needed any help moving in. He introduced himself. I didn't really hear what he said because I was distracted by the weird smell coming from one of the brother's cooking in the kitchen, so I was maybe only half-listening. I didn't hear his name. But I felt bad for possibly asking him to repeat it so I just smiled and nodded like I heard him. "Welcome," I said as I turned up my music and settled in.

I did not know this man's name for the entire semester. We would see each other on campus and just do the bro-nod in the other's direction. His name was either Brian, Jeff or Scott. We never hung out or really pretended to be friends. I probably ate his chips, or something. It now seems like this is a bit of a pattern--forming sort-of relationships with veritable strangers that I interact with on a somewhat constant basis, who know who I am, but I don't know who they are. I know all the names of the people I love, and all the names of the Jackson children. But for the life of me, I cannot remember the name of that lady who walks her dog. And she's so nice!

I am convinced there is a point at which it is no longer appropriate to ask for someone's name if you have had interactions with them for an extended period of time. It just feels weird. "Hi lady who I say hello to every morning for the past 365 days. What is your name?" That sounds weird! But she knows my dogs' names! Ack!

Maybe this isn't such a bad thing. I tend to get pretty attached to things when I care about them, so if I keep these people at a distance and they move, or their dogs die, it won't be such a big deal. I don't know. I still feel kind of bad.

Tell me what you think.

Jon

8.11.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I just drank two glasses of Chinese herbs. I am supposed to drink three glasses a day and I already drank one, and it was getting late so I figured I should just do the last two at the same time. Now, I am washing said herbs down with a Miller High Life. I wonder what my acupuncturist would say about all of this.

I have come into a lot of free time recently and I have tried to make the most of it. I have decided that this $1500 bag that I wanted may not be the most responsible purchase, ever. In fact, the entire thought process I had about the purchase of said bag reminds me of a similar pattern of thoughts I had as a kid. Do you remember when everyone had a beeper? I think the technical term was pager, but only doctors and moms called them pagers. Looking back, I am not sure if I completely understand why beepers were so completely pervasive. What exactly was their purpose? I think it was to let the person you are beeping know that they need to call you or maybe get in verbal communication with you in some way. Remember folks who had special codes all worked out with their family or their fifth grade boyfriends? I think it was some pretty serious business.

My mom had a beeper. She wasn't a doctor. She just had one. I think MCI got her a good deal. I remember doing anything I could so that I could just hold it, maybe carry around when we were at the mall, you know, let the clip hang out of my pocket. I had no business with a beeper. I didn't have any friends who needed to get in touch, I was a fifth grader. I was always with my parents, so they didn't need to do anything to find me because, hello, I was right there. But it seemed all the cool kids had beepers. And they had them in cool colors. I remember beeping my friend Naseem from time to time just to see if she would call back.

I wanted a beeper so badly! One day when we were at the mall, I knew it was time. I had been pricing beepers, so I knew how much they cost. But what the world didn't know was that I was so about to fool them. When I was pricing beepers, I was also pricing beeper cases. You know, the actual brightly colored thing the beeper slid into. This is what people recognized if they thought you had a beeper, the case and maybe the clip hanging on the outside of a pocket on your hip. I knew that if I just bought the beeper case then it would look like a full-blown beeper and my place as a cool kid would be cemented.

The thing cost $16, so I saved and saved. I don't remember ever really having lots of cash as a kid, but I remember there was this extremely vague idea that we were to get $1 per week as an allowance. But I don't remember how often that actually happened. All of this is to say I don't know where exactly the money came from, but I had it. I had been preparing for a while now and I knew that I wanted the neon yellow beeper case. My family was down at Pizza Hut. We loved the Book It program because it allowed us to get those awesome personal pan pizzas from the Hut, which for some reason we only ever got at the mall. The beeper store was down near the entrance to the food court.

I begged off standing in line at Pizza Hut saying that I needed to go to the bathroom, which was next to the beeper place. I walked down there. "I want the neon yellow beeper case please."

"Do you know what kind of pager you have?"

"Of course I do, why would I buy a paaager case with no paaaaager?" I replied.

"Ok, that will be $16."

"Fine. I have it all. My mom would not appreciate you treating me like this. In fact, that's her paging me now..."

"Here you go! Enjoy it!"

I was elated. I didn't make it past the Arby's, though, before complete and total buyers remorse overtook my sub-adolescent conscience. I don't really have a beeper! How will I explain to my parents that I spent all that money on a beeper case, only to just have it so that people will think I have a beeper! I did ponder using it to hold gum, as there was a bubblegum beeper they sold at the Media Play. I wanted to buy that one because it made a little more sense for me as I was a child and all, but the clip didn't look right and I don't like fake things!

After a moment or two, I turned right back around and returned to the beeper store, which really was just a counter in a wall that displayed beeper paraphernalia. "My mom said this cost too much. I need to return it for a refund."

That was that. My brush with the beeper case was swift, and for just a second I felt like I could really be going places. But it seemed like the only place I was actually headed was one of those situations where you do something dumb, your parents find out, and then you have to make up some kind of story about why what just happened just happened. I didn't have many friends, so using the one I had made no sense. I couldn't justify this extravagance.

I never got a beeper, but I did carry my mom's for a while after she got her service cut off. This was a few months or maybe years after the fad had passed on from my fifth grade. But I will tell you, there was something a little cool about turning on the vibrate alert and saying, "Oh, that was my friend from Atlanta! I'll be right back!" as I would walk away, laughing to myself.

Talk to you soon.

Jon

8.6.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I had an accident at acupuncture this morning. Not really an accident, I guess. It may have been more of a misunderstanding. But it does involve my forehead having this weird bruise.

The first time I did acupuncture was last week. I didn't have much of a fear of all the needles and the sticking, although I once ran out on a pediatrician who tried to give me a hepatitis vaccine. This experience was relaxing. He put needles in my stomach, my legs, my neck, my ears, almost everywhere. Then he took those out and I flipped over and we did it all over again. Sometimes I fall asleep really fast when I'm on my stomach so I almost passed out this time.

My second time was this morning. I walked in, said hello, read a little about the Saved By The Bell reunion perpetrated by People magazine. Then it was time. He brought me to a new room, one that had four beds. One had a lady in it already, and she seemed to be pretty zonked out. I tried not to look at her so as to make sure I didn't interrupt anything going on. So we're whispering, he's asking me about my stomach and how it's been since the first time. Things have been good, I say. I've really noticed a difference already. Great to hear, he whispereplies. He instructs me to take off my shoes, which I almost misinterpreted as take off your shirt. I didn't expect that, so I just removed my shoes which turned out to be the right move.

He gets right to putting the needles in. They don't really hurt when they go in, only sometimes. And I let him know when it does hurt. There was one in my stomach that got a "Nuh uh, no thank you" and he fixed that one up quick. He needles me all up, and he says he'll be back. The first time, each side of my body got between fifteen and twenty minutes. I figure he'll be back soon and it will be time for the changeover.

I lay there, and lay there, and lay there, and lay there. I tried to fall asleep, I swear but I could feel parts of my body going numb. I didn't know if that was from the needles or the fact that my feet were raised just a little. I couldn't move my toes on my right foot! But I powered through, in anticipation of explaining this new back pain I've had a few times over the past month that decided to come back two days ago. And I kept waiting for him to come back. Nope, this was it--we were done.

After all was said and poked, and an hour later, I was out of there. I had no idea what was going to happen so I was surprised so much time had passed! It turns out, because I'm broke as a joke, I am part of the acupuncture community, which means cheaper rates, but also means group rooms and one side of your body at a time. All of which is totally fine with me, I just didn't know. He started explaining this as he was taking the needles out of my body. He has been sticking one in my forehead, to help clear and calm the mind. This one made me bleed a little. He patted the blood out and warned about the bruise.

I was feeling and looking good when I got out of there. Then around 2 or 3 this afternoon, I notice this bizarre coloring on my forehead. It is clearly a bruise, right between my eyebrows. It's not that it looks totally weird, I mean maybe some people get hickies on their foreheads. I guess my forehead is just sensitive. I had forgotten all about this forehead bruise until my boss asked me about it. We laughed because I told her the story after explaining that I completely forgot that I had this purplish-brownish spot on my face.

All of this is to say that if you do acupuncture, sometimes they only do one side of your body. And if your person warns that there might be bruising, ice that spot quick!

Ok, honestly, it's really not that bad.

Hope you are well.

Jon

7.29.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am listening to Whitney Houston's new song, "I Look to You" right now. And I am now beginning my second listen of the song. I can't decide how I feel about it. It's a slow one. And she sounds kind of different. I mean, we know she's been through a lot--Bobby's no longer around, Bobbi Kristina is a mess, and she also sort of dated Ray J. She's seen it.

Normally we're used to hearing Whit belt it the eff out. This song is restrained, almost calm. I can see her doing this at an awards shoe and bringing the house to tears. R. Kelly wrote it, which accounts for most of the melodrama. Wouldn't it have been more interesting if she had taken on her own sort of "Trapped in the Closet"? The first 12 chapters from Kells were not enough, and who better a storyteller than Whitney Houston, herself? I'm just saying.

Ok, I am now forming a much more solid opinion about this one. It doesn't even really sound like Whitney Houston, at all. There are elements of her phrasing and flavor, but Whitney circa any time in the 1990s this is not. I'm giving it a third listen just to be sure.

I swear, we love comebacks. And she is ripe for one. I think many of us can admit that we loved "Being Bobby Brown" not for Bob, but for Whitney's cameos. It was insane to watch her train wreck every week. But I am dying for her to come back with a huge bang. "Just Whitney" did not do it for me. At all. As this "I Look to You" keeps playing, I am kind of getting into it, I think. I think I like her new voice. It's almost like how Aretha's voice got all husky and dirty as she's aged, the talent is still there but the instrument is different. We know Whit can do it, but maybe it's a little nice to hear her do it a little differently this time around. I won't even lie, I will buy her album the day it comes out. I know she could use the money, and I want her to be on top.

Let's wish her luck.

Jon

7.20.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am not my hair. That is a song by India Arie, that chick who wanted to be Tracey Chapman but lost her flava when she shaved off her dreds. For a long time, I thought I was my hair--that my self-confidence was negatively correlated with the length of my hair. The shorter it was, the better I felt. Whenever it got long, I swear I always did begin to feel bad about myself and the world. So in what could only be described as a fit, I would buzz off all of my hair in the middle of the night to wake up the next day with a lighter load and an eighth of an inch of hair.

The past year has seen me growing out my hair a bit. Many people like it, I'd say. I like it, and I still feel good. Of course, there are those haters like my mom, sister, and friend Megan who say they prefer me with shorter hair. I wonder if all their negative comments in the past might have caused me to feel bad, all the "But you look so much better when your hair is shorter" or "I just like it better, you look older, more mature when you hair is shorter". These are the things I'd hear when I would come home from college on breaks. But as a sort of rebellion, I've been growing out my hair this past year and it feels good. I no longer cut my hair myself, which I had been doing for the previous year and a half, or so. I get it professionally tamed, which I think adds to its manageability and general awesomeness. That is until it is humid or if it is rainy.

The new hair length has let me play with different kinds of products because I finally have hair to put product in. I don't know yet if I've figured out the right amount because some days I look super greasy and other days I am a hot frizzy mess. But today, I thought I might have achieved the right balance of hair product. By the time I got to work I thought I might have used too much. But the rain was doing things to my head.

After the first hour or so, my hair had officially become a poof. This is one of the main reasons I didn't grow out my hair in the past. When my hair gets long, it tends to gain size and volume, leaving this huge mess of bristly and coarse poofiness. But I had been combatting that recently by having it cut by a professional. But I think I am in need of a haircut. My hair curled up and frizzed out today. It looks like it's standing about four or five inches off the top of my head, which reminds me a little of Gene Wilder (who I almost just called Gene Hackman) in "Willy Wonka".

It's probably not even that bad. I really just wanted to see what you thought and what you used to tame your hair. I wonder what your hair looks like when you wake up in the morning. Ok, I really don't wonder that. Anyway, here's to taming the poof. Pun intended.

Jon

7.15.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I was thinking. Today is my birthday and you haven't really done much for me lately. I don't ask for much, just to hear from you every now and then. Maybe a call here or there, to make sure you're alive or at least continuing to receive checks from SNL and/or Tina Fey. But I've decided to ask you to help make me an internet celebrity or just a plain celebrity.

I was on Facebook just now and it suggested I become a fan of B. Scott. I had no idea who this B. Scott person was, so I clicked to go to his page. He is a blogger who has used his interviews with some B and C list celebs to get a job with Access Hollywood. I do not want to be a celebrity blogger, and I don't want to work on Access Hollywood, I will leave that to Mark McGrath. However, I was wondering if you could help me secure a book deal.

After I just said that, I don't know if it's the right thing right now. I find it hard enough sometimes to find time to write to you on a semi-regular basis. I am trying to write an essay about this one night of craziness during grad school, and am finding that unless I just happen to be inspired when in front of the computer, I don't write. Colette, my writing partner, and I have decided that we would start to bring pieces that we worked on during the week to our meetings, rather than use our meetings as a time to write. I had so much trouble getting inspired last week and getting anything written. Until the last minute. Then, in a fury, I wrote like 800 words of awesomeness. But it made me feel a little like I did when I was in grad school--that general feeling of anxiety that I wasn't doing any work and that I had work I needed to get done. But there wasn't any work here, and I like writing this kind of thing. But for a minute I was thinking, "Oh my god, please don't make me write about jails and witches! I promise I will get it all done. I swear!"

Although, if I had something to aspire to, like a collection of essays then I would get so much out of doing the work and having a finished product. This is why you need to get me a book deal--so basically, I can do something awesome. As I read this out loud, I realize this is a little selfish. Which is why if you get me the book deal, I promise to be your best friend. Forever. We would make such an awesome team. We could make lots of weird and awkward faces at each other. I would let you call me "lovah". You could tell me all about what it was like to play Elizabeth Taylor that one time. We could get brunch on the weekends, our dogs could play together. Oh man, which reminds me.

Lyle, the beagle, has been diagnosed as having epilepsy. This was insanely scary, as Ben and I watched his first major seizure in the kitchen. Jesus. But the dog is a survivor. I just found out that Hugo Weaving and Lindsey Buckingham are also epileptics. Lyle is in good company, I think. I wonder if this means we can get a handicapped hangtag for our car. I once saw a Porshe with a handicapped hangtag. I can't judge--handican, my friend!

Well, I guess I should get going. I wish you could come to the party tonight, but you're probably busy. That's cool.

Jon

7.6.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

So this past weekend was the 4th of July. I always get the 4th and New Year's confused. But I don't think I've ever watched fireworks on New Year's eve. I guess it's all the other shiny and exploding things the two share that has them being the same holiday, but in winter and summer versions, for me. We went and visited some friends who just married and who live in the town where Ben went to school. It was great to see them and great to see the town and campus.

I don't know if we realized how attached we are to our college campuses until we go away for a while. Then, like the road you take to your house, you get that feeling of familiarity and comfort when you get close. The signs look familiar. You remember that time when you almost got a ticket for going the wrong way on a one-way street. You remember how awesome you thought it was to mix beer and wine together when you were eating chips and sour cream. There's just something about coming back to a place you hardcore knew that is nice.

I love knowing people's favorite things about their favorite places. When we moved to The Hill, I was always pointing out my favorite burrito place, the place that has the best drink specials, the place that we must avoid unless we want to smell like tortilla chips and grease for three days. Being up there with Ben was great because I finally got to put real life things together with all the stories. Like this one place he lived in that included the Door to Nowhere. Like, it's an upstairs door that has no balcony or even little porch or anything to step out on above the main house door. You open the door and if you step out, you will step on some air and promptly hit the ground. We don't know why this door ever existed, but it does. And to see it for real after hearing about it is kind of like seeing a bigfoot. You sort of believe when people tell you it exists, but once you see it you are a believer for life.

It was a really great weekend. Of course, I got crazy sunburned. I feel like I don't have fair skin and can handle the sun. But when if you've been indoors for six months, like I have, you sit out for even a second too long and you get burned. Whatever. I love burned knees. And it was worth it!

We should talk soon.

Jon

6.21.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I was doing some thinking as I was walking to the gym one morning this past week. The gym is close by so I walk there. There is a bald-headed older gentleman who has a mid-life crisis convertible that he drives there every morning instead of walking. He vroomed past me as I was trying to collect some thoughts earlier this week, kind of jarring me awake. It was early in the morning and I was still getting used to the light. We've started this new workout plan this is kind of kicking my ass. I mean, I'm seeing results and muscles are getting bigger and harder but it's hard work!

On the way there I was in mid-dread about the impending leg presses I was to do. The leg press is the first exercise of the new plan. Back during my days in the bodybuilding club in college, I dreaded dreaded dreaded the leg press. And now it's back in my life, in full effect. So far, it's been easy to handle. But then I am not doing so much weight that I am getting stuck in the leg press machine, needing the help of three burly dudes to help pry me out of it. That happened.

Anyway, I'm walking to the gym when I see him--the man, who in the past week I have decided to call Spooky. When I saw him this past week I had to slow my roll a little because he makes me a little afraid. I am beginning to see what a problem homelessness is becoming, even here in little old North Carolina. These people have no where to go but the street. I wish I could do more.

The first time I saw him it was a night. We were driving back from somewhere and it was late and dark. Having just turned the corner coming off the off-ramp, we were merging into the most left lane so that we could follow it down two lights to our house. Then I looked to my right. Gasping, "Was that a ghost?" I didn't know exactly what I had seen. Ben replied, "Jon, why would a ghost just be walking down the side of the road?" I didn't understand that it was indeed a man that I had seen, as he was moving slowly as if moseying to the beat of an apparitional drum. Ben clearly knew what he saw, and it was a guy who was moving very slowly and kind of side to side, more like a pirate with a wooden leg than perhaps a ghost.

Because I was convinced Spooky was indeed a ghost, I never thought we would encounter him again. I mean, unless your home is haunted or you did something bad to some lady right before she died, I like to think that if you were to encounter a ghost it happens just once. All of this ghost talk comes from the shows we sometimes watch on the History Channel. They are mostly concerned with the search for cryptids--you know things like ghosts, blood-sucking wolf/cats, and swamp things. These shows will have you convinced you are seeing crazy shit if you believe that these things could possibly be real. I guess I believe because the second time I mistook Spooky for Big Foot. And again, like the idea of ghosts I have in my head, Big Foots also move slowly and side to side. Ben again cleared this confusion up for me. Spooky is a man, not a cryptid. He just moves real slow.

Over the course of the past week, I have encountered Spooky twice. And both times I have reacted in the same way. I slow my walk to a crawl and begin to whisper, whether to someone I'm with or inside my head. "There's Spooky. Don't let him see you. If you move slowly and keep far enough away he can't get you." It really is as if I am treating this man like he is actually a ghost or Big Foot and I am the Crocodile Hunter, but of cryptids. I don't exacly fear for my life, but my skin does get a little cold and I lose feeling in my extremities.

Ok, I should probably be honest. Those feelings have to be from the new workout, and not from Spooky. At least with the new workout I'm not doing all those crazy muscle enhancing pills and powders like last time. Then I could always blame my crazy on something I took. I guess now I'm just crazy, and all people are cryptids. Consider this a cry for help.

Hope you are well,
Jon

6.14.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

It seems I have been away for longer that I anticipated. Well, things have been busy. I realized that during much of May, I did not do many of the things I had been doing for many of the months prior: I was not writing, I was not meeting with my writing partner (shoutout to Miss C.). Now that I think about it, that may have been all that I didn't do. I still went to work, I still ate, I became even more obsessed with the Kardashian family. So it really seems I only neglected you during May. And for that, I apologize.

But this is not to say that there were things that happened that were not worth mentioning. We made a little vacation trip up to the Big Apple. The other times I've been up there, I've always flown into JFK. But this time, using Hotwire (shoutout to Hotwire), we got a killer deal but it involved flying into Laguardia. Neither of us had been to this airport, but I had made a vow to myself that if I were to ever move to New York I would live in Queens because that's where the Mets play and it is the home to my favorite Latina familia de television, The Suarezes. Laguardia, here we come.

We fly into Queens and into Laguardia. My first impression was that it was much smaller than JFK. We didn't have to take seven different trains around and within the airport. In fact, we just stepped off the plane and into the terminal and there was the foodcourt and those shops that sell books and those neck-pad-brace-pillows. I've never even seen those at JFK. In fact, I've only seen what look like mall kiosks at JFK--the kind that hawk flat irons, cell phone cases, and Rosetta Stone. I was impressed so far with Laguardia, to say the least.

We're out, we're walking around in the terminal. We see the sun so we figure that must be where our exit is and where we will meet the bus to take us into The City. Finally making it outside, we see some bus stops. Do you notice that regardless of what city you're in, bus stops all kind of look the same. And it seems to not matter whether you are at the airport or at the gas station across the street, there are always the same kind of looking people who hang out at the bus stop. Without describing the variety of people that fit this genre of loiterer, you can think about it and know who I'm talking about--especially if you know that angry little midget from Nashville, who always seemed to be weilding a knife or a Fanta bottle. These are the people who love bus stops. And they hang out at the airport bus stops, too.

The weird thing about this area, the loading/unloading area of the airport, was that there was no place to buy a metro card. I didn't understand how we could use public transportation in the Apple if we didn't have one, because hello, who carries cash around. I guess people who hang out at the bus stop carry cash because they all seemed to understand what was happening when the bus showed up and a few of them wandered on to it. I knew we would need the metro card to get on the train once we were abandoned by the bus driver in Harlem, and I wanted to be prepared. Also, I wanted to be able to just get on the bus and not worry about quarters and dimes and nickels. I guess regular bus riders only think in change.

Both of us were a little confused. We went back inside and asked the kind lady at the information desk where we could find a machine or a person that would sell us some metro cards. She thrust a thick visitor's guide in our hands and said something about Hudson News. This was the name of the airport bookstore. And it is also apparently the name of the place that we where we could find the key to The City--the metro card.

You know how I said Laguardia seems smaller than JFK? It's only smaller if you have an idea where you are going. Where we were once following the light of the sun, we were now staring at every neon and flourescent light, hoping it would read Hudson News. We went off in one direction that put us back in the area where we first entered the terminal and we were accosted by a sort of kindly sir who offered us his taxi services. We had just heard the announcement to not accept offers of rides from people who aren't in real taxis or buses. I don't understand why there isn't a train that goes to the airport, which could prevent the kinds of things that happen when you get into a stranger's car. Queens!

Figuring out that this is probably not where the Hudson News was, we turned in the opposite direction. We passed the lady who gave us all The City information. We ended up leaving the bible-thick tome of New York, along with the coupon book that included discounts to the Times Square Red Lobster and Phantom of the Opera, in our hotel room. Gross. So we're moving and I started to get frustrated because I was tired and for the first time since I've visited New York, I felt overwhelmed. I was tired and confused, and everything seemed to be in non-English. And there was no direct, overt or even neon-flourescent sign that there were metro cards to be purchased anywhere in this airport.

There might have been a bit of flared tempers during all of this. Neither one of us knew where we were going, and both of us were confused by the lack of clear and present signage. We eventually found the Hudson News where the metro cards could be found. Naturally, they were only available in denominations of $7. Weird, but we took two.

The rest of the trip was less taxing. We made it to our waaay downtown hotel--so downtown that it was on the corner of Wall Street. Both of us scowled at the bankers and financiers we saw Monday morning. I was hoping to see Ms. Bernie Madoff, but apparently she has been keeping a low profile. Lots of good food, lotttts of good drinks. Shoutout to Laura, Maura & Jane. I didn't realized how exhausted I was until we got home on Monday and promptly crashed after some Jimmy John's.

Next time, we'll probably fly into somewhere else. To say the least, I think Laguardia is a bit of a mess. Or it may just be one giant bus stop.

Jon

5.27.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

This weekend, I am taking a plane and making a trip. I rode my first airplane at 18--we went to Disney World as a graduation present from high school. I've always been a Disney fan since childhood so it only made sense that I celebrate my "move" into adulthood by spending time on flying elephants and in that giant silver golf ball. And I'm being serious--this was the best gift, ever. Previously, I had been a little afraid of airplanes. Anything that flew in the air scared me because I didn't understand how they stayed up there. Once, on vacation at Universal Studios, we were about to ride Back To the Future The Ride. I was crying my eyes out because the commercial made it seem that the cars were held up by wires. I was afraid that if one of these wires snapped that me and my family would plunge to our death. Instead, the cars were held by anything but, and instead just sat within a domed screen, IMAX style before IMAX existed. Everything about flying in any kind of way left my stomach twisted and my eyes wet when I was young.

Today, I fly with little to no incident. I get magazines to read that I normally don't read, I get the ipod going, and lately Ben and I travel together, which also makes the plane ride a little easier. So I'm traveling blah blah blah. I don't have any complaints with the removal of shoes (please don't look at my toenails!), or that you have to take out your computer if you bring it with you, or that you can't say goodbye to your loved ones at the gate and instead have to do it by the ticket counters. I would say that the thing that irks me the most is the rule about small toiletries.

When I go to the store, I buy the big ones. Big toothpaste, big contact solution, big deodorant. I think to fly with things in a carry-on they need to be three or less ounces or something. Of course, my joints are like four ounces. And I always forget about the tiny bottle rule when I travel. I end up having to buy things when I get wherever I am going, which is okay sometimes. I think the thing that I worry about is that if I get caught trying to smuggle in these mondo-sized bottles of contact solution that I will be pulled over, stripped searched, and added some list of people who may or may not be dangerous to the flying public. Maybe I'll just wear my glasses.

Jon

5.22.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am writing mostly because it has been a minute since we last talked. I had something to say last week, but then I forgot what it was and didn't write. It was going to be really good. I guess it wasn't that good if I can't remember, right?

I don't know though, I feel like it was pretty funny. Sometimes it's hard to come up with things to talk about with you because you're not exactly responsive, so when an idea hits me I have to write then and there, or else the magic just kind of evaporates. Gah, it was so good!

It was nice to see you on TV last night. I mean, considering what you were working with, I thought you did well. I would've liked to see you work more with the pigeons, maybe keep Betty from eating some churros, or at least from kissing super-wet-looking Henry. Maybe I don't understand the weather in New York, but he looked so sweaty the whole time, and not at all in a sexy way, but one that is more, "You need some eco-friendly deodorant that won't stain your white t-shirts because it looks like you're sweating a lot."

This reminds me. I was talking with this kind advertising lady yesterday. She came in to try and sell us some stuff that would have been cool in 2004. Blah blah. I tried to sell her a dress and some shoes, but she wasn't having it. After mildly offending me when she suggested I use one of her clients who comes into your home to whiten your teeth, she began to describe this eco-friendly deodorant idea that she had. She did not understand why it seemed that there were always stains on white t-shirts' armpits. She wants to blame it on the deodorant, rather than the sweat. I was kind of surprised when she suggested that it wasn't the sweat that was staining the armpits, mostly because I was always under the impression that it was the sweat, not the deodorant. I wanted to suggest a deodorant that actually keeps your pits for real dry, because I use the stuff but sometimes I feel a little damp. Maybe that's me. You know, in white shirts we also get some ring-around-the-collar kinds of things. I don't put deodorant on my neck, so that must not be the cause, right?

Maybe dirt oozes out of us some way. I don't know. But she was talking about creating this new deodorant and threatened that we should not steal her idea. It's all yours, ma'am. 

Speaking of stains, somehow I spilled some tea on my shirt this morning. Maybe it's not the deodorant or the sweat, but it's just white clothes that attract stains. Of course, my shirt today is white. But, I am wearing an undershirt to combat the pit stains. 

I can't believe I just wrote you about pit stains. I should probably go.

Jon

5.6.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I'm not trying to be a celebrity blogger, a la Perez Hilton or the many faceless names we encounter when we dig through our daily blog routines. But this story was too good to pass up.

First, I am obsessed with fashion--almost to the point that I scream out who made someone's outfit and the season it was first shown when I see it on TV. So naturally, come this pas Monday, I was in heaven as it was the Metropolitan Museum's Costume Institute's annual ball. This is bigger than the Oscars, in terms of fashion. It's a time when models whose names and faces we don't know mingle with the names and faces we recognize, but they all are looking ferocious. Oh, hello Mr. Lagerfeld! Ms. Wintour, it has been too long! 

Ok, Karl didn't show up this year. Many of the names you would expect to be a huge fashion shindig didn't come. No Naomi, Linda or Christy--despite the theme being dedicated to Models as Muses. Kate Moss was there, but that's because she had someone pay enough money that she could be named co-chair of the event. Naomi and Linda didn't show up because of a major gaffe involving Alaia (who you may remember as that designer who made Cher Horwitz's pink dress in Clueless). Anyway, I would have liked if they didn't come because Naomi threw a cellphone at or maybe spit on Linda. But that would have been too Super Model, I suppose. Many other BFDs didn't show up, due to other commitments, yada yada yada. 

I guess to make up for the lack of appearances by Karl, Naomi and the like, they had to stretch it and invite other people they thought would make for a good time. Enter Kiefer Sutherland. I guess we all forgot about his jail stint and his addiction to things, like the bottle. But he showed up. Before he arrived to the Ball, he was apparently seen twirling ladies in a bar while wearing a feather boa. I hope they didn't confuse him with Matthew McConaughey--doesn't that seem more like something up his alley? Wouldn't he also have made for a more beautiful guest list? 

Anyway, the Keef was pretty messed up. Fast-forward to the after party. Folks are having fun. Brooke Shields is there, wearing Calvin. Looking fly. She was standing near Jack McCollough, part 1 of 2 of Proenza Schouler--an awesome label that designs clothes for PYTs. The word is that Jack knocked Brooke over. I like to think he was dancing too hard and knocked her drink out of her hand with his elbow, as I have been known to do. 

The Keef saw this happen and made it his duty to make sure Jack made amends with Brooke. He did this by inciting a fight, and proceeded to head butt Jack. Brooke is denying this. Jack has filed a police report. 

This is why Jack Bauer is not allowed anywhere that is not a television set. Anna Wintour, you have been warned.

Jon

4.24.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I was driving to work this morning when I remembered the giant sigh of relief I exhaled a while back when I learned of Ike Turner's passing. I don't remember if I was listening to Miss Tina or not, but something just made me feel a lot lighter when I remembered that he was gone. The relief I felt when I learned of his death was a little weird, but I'll explain why.

In 1993 or so, I became obsessed with a number of R&B divas. These included Tina, Janet Jackson, Mary J. Blige, Whitney Houston, and TLC to name a few. A number of them (Turner, Jackson and Houston) were longstanding love affairs that really came to a head around this time. I remember begging my parents to please record on VHS this live concert of Tina's that was airing on PBS. I have no idea how I found out about this concert because what nine year old watches PBS concert specials, but I had to make sure that I had it committed to videotape so that I could enjoy it at a later date. But, I also watched it live. I think there was a babysitter involved. Either way, I was obsessed.

It was also around this time that the Tina biopic was released, featuring Laurence Fishburne and the only actress to play every possible famous black lady, Angela Bassett. Angela Bassett is the only woman who could play Tina Turner, Catherine Jackson and Harriet Tubman while also appearing in two different Terri McMillan novels-that-became-films. Angela Bassett wasn't really the woman she would become yet, but "What's Love Got To Do With It" really made her into the woman who could later play the Stella who lost her groove.

So we remember all the junk that came out about how Ike Turner used to beat the shit out of Tina, right? About two years ago I bought and read her autobiography, "I, Tina". It goes into a bit of the gory detail, but I don't think it includes that scene where he forces cake into her face. Even though she was finally able to get away, become the Private Dancer, and ultimately one of the first American pop singers to adopt a sort of British accent (sorry, Madonna), I lived in fear for her life as long as Ike Turner was still alive.

Maybe there's something about Laurence Fishburne or maybe it was just that Angela Bassett played the fear so well, but Ike Turner was a bad-ass motherfucker. I lived in fear of him, and I was a nine year old. What, with all the drugs and the cake and the hitting, he is like that weird uncle at the reunions that you hope doesn't drink too much Canadian Mist for fear of all the uncomfortable violence that ensues. For me, this is one of my aunts, but that is neither here nor there.

Needless to say, I was scared of Ike Turner. Tina might have escaped, but I wholeheartedly believed that if he had the chance he would go after her with a vengeance and make her pay for her success. Writing this all out makes it quite clear that even as a nine year old my imagination was a little out there. I mean, I didn't know Ike or Tina. I don't know their lives! But the love I had for Tina was long and hard. I swear as a fetus in my mom I heard her sing "What's Love Got To Do With It". I remember "Simply the Best" as a toddler. Oh geez, and I also remember being that nine year old kid who made his parents take him to McDonald's so he could get Tina's greatest hits CD that was a special edition only available at McDonald's. That CD made me fall in love with "Nutbush City Limits"--a song that remains one of my favorites despite Ike's contributions.

The love I have for Tina remains. There was always a little part of me that believed that Ike would come after her. Then he just died. There was no great showdown, no final battle. He just kind of faded. And with his fading out, my fear of his retaliation also subsided. I know Tina has been living somewhere in Europe near Shania Twain for years. I know Ike couldn't afford to fly there because he was too busy continuing to tour with some sort of musical act across the United States. There was no chance a final act would happen. She had already won.

But when I heard he died, I could breathe for her. It was finally over. Ike Turner was gone. Tina was finally free. It's almost like I just wanted it to end dramatically because that would have made for a better ending to "What's Love..." because let's face it, I'm pretty sure it just ends with ol Angie lip-syncing to the title song, doing the Tina shuffle. I mean come the fuck on, Ike forced cake down your throat and all over your face, and you just shuffle!? I guess Buddha helps folks do big things, but she is Tina Turner. From Nutbush. Don't think for a minute she wouldn't shove one of those stilleto heels in his eye had he come back.

Dude, I don't know what brought all this on. But I do love her. I tried to get tickets to a show on her most recent retirement tour, but she wanted like $100 million for each ticket. Yes, Tina, you are the goddess of fierce, but also, bitch please. I just watched my old video of her live from like 1987. She's still got the moves, the voice, and the legs.

I know you love Tina as much, if not more than me. I heard you're going to be on the season finale of "Ugly Betty". That's real good. I hope you and Amanda become best friends. She needs you. Get back to me!

Jon

4.17.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I got my hair cut a couple weeks ago. I don't know how often you get your hair cut, but I might go every two or three months. I had been cutting it myself, just buzzing it all off with these clippers I have. I stopped doing that for a while and people started commenting that they liked me with longer hair. I mean anything more than like an eighth or a quarter of an inch is longer than what I had, so any length tended to garner, "Are you growing your hair out?"

Having had short hair for so long, I decided that maybe I would let my hair grow out a little. The last time I buzzed it all off was in August. I also realized that any job prospects I may have might be turned off if I came in looking like a skinhead. Interesting that my first job started in September, when I had hair on my head. My hair grows pretty fast, so going two or three months between cuts leaves me looking a little, um, shaggy. Ok, it may be more like a fro. It gets real puffy and a little large. My hair is super thick, too. So there's all kinds of hair going on up there. In November, right before I went home to see family and do Thanksgiving, I got my first haircut in a year and a half. I felt like one of those crazy people on "What Not to Wear" when I admitted that I had been cutting my own hair for that long. They said I did as good of a job on my head as those folks at Supercuts. This did make me ponder a career in hair.

The lady who cut my hair was alright, her personality didn't really make me tingle. The next time I went to this salon, I got this other woman. The new lady cuts Ben's hair and the hair of two other friends. I trust her. She was super awesome. I had a great time and got a great cut. She was also the first hair person to suggest that I start parting my hair from the right, rather than the left. Hello! I have three cowlicks on my head, which combined with all that hair, that make for quite the mess. But parting it on the right totally gives me some control over the insanity.

It was time to get a haircut about a month ago, and the lady I liked wasn't available at times that I was available. I had to seek out a new hair person. I almost decided to say fuck it and start cutting my own hair again. But the length looked really good and I just needed someone to help me get it back under control. I found this other lady who is near my current job. Perfect.

The new lady is really good and really sweet. I look good. As we were finishing up, after she had cut my hair, we decided to straighten it. This always makes me feel a little a little uncomfortable because it makes me feel like my hair is super poofy. But she reassures me, "We'll make really piecy!"

I thought she said "P.C." as in politically correct. At first I didn't understand what that meant, but then I reasoned it out to me that she wouldn't make me look too gay that it would be more acceptable if were just subtly flat ironed rather than like full on Clay Aiken. The funny thing is that she said it a few more times, too. I would just look at her face to read her facial expression and mimic it back to her. I would add a little laugh to make it seem like I was totally understanding. I started to get a little offended. Was I too gay looking and she needed to tone me down? I was wearing a tie and khakis so that wasn't it. Am I unaware of some flamboyance that is obvious to people who just met me but not obvious to me? I hope not. I wasn't sure what it was, but I tried to just go with it. Up to this point, I had really been enjoying the hair cut and the hair cut lady. She was really nice and she had me looking real good. I didn't want to have to search out for another hair person. I liked her.

As these thoughts were swirling in my head, she said something that changed it all. "It's so funny. This one time I was cutting this lady's hair and I told her I was going to make it piecy. And she kept correcting me telling me she wanted it choppy. And I would say piecy, and she would say choppy. And this continued until I realized she thought I meant P.C. I thought she was crazy! What is a P.C. haircut? That is so weird. Who gets that confused?" As I shrugged my shoulders, knit my brow, and twisted my mouth into one of those, "Who the fuck knows" looks, my insides were dying. I am one of those people who misunderstands piecey to be P.C. I thought I was going to have hair that wouldn't offend anyone.

I laughed and said, "Oh man. That's so dumb!"

My hair drives me nuts. Your hair looked beautiful on the Bravo A-List Awards. Hope you are well.

Jon

4.12.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

This past week, Entertainment Weekly named it's top 25 funniest actresses. Names included Tina Fey, Sarah Silverman, and Kristen Wiig. Those three I think we can say totally belong. Those ladies are hilarious, all day every day. Noticeably, you and Chelsea Handler were missing. Instead, they included a score of women who are all appearing in "I Love You, Man". Most of these women I've never heard of, or they are women who are just actresses who appear in funny things but are people I wouldn't consider funny. Hello, Jaime Pressley. Also, do we know Octavia Spencer from anything other than her obscure guest role as the immigration helper on "Ugly Betty"? This list is so weird and infuriating. Emily Blunt, you are not funny. All you women on "The Office," you are not funny. That's all you do Mindy Kaling, what else have you done? Geez, last one. Rashida Jones annoys me. She's not funny. She's just Quincy's daughter who got a couple successful acting gigs. We might as well include Nicole Richie as one of Hollywood's funniest women. I mean, I did crack up when she poured bleach all over that pool table during "The Simple Life". Whatever.

This past week I have been suffering from debilitating allergies. It always feels like such a surprise to me, year after year, when my head gets congested and my eyes and ears start to itch. I always forget how in nearly every year past the same thing happens. And every year I always act like I don't know how to take care of it. Sometimes I like to pretend that they will just go away. But the past two days I have been talking like I am a heavy smoker because I have so much junk down in my throat. It's times like these that I wish I was a rapper because my voice sounds really hard and very New York. I could totally be the new Biggie, minus the selling drugs and the weight problem. But it will all go away in a little while. Knowing that is what keeps me from trying to fully exploit my seasonal talent for what it is.

For a little while, I thought it might be a reaction to these cookies that came back into my life. During grad school, I became obsessed with these cookies that are covered in icing and stay soft for months on end. I referred to them as those stay soft cookies, but my friend Harry calls them Barbie cookies because they tend to have pink icing and are covered in sprinkles, like Barbie. So I was obsessed with these Barbie cookies. When it was exam time or just when I was feeling bad about myself, I would roll up to the grocery store and buy a box. They are strangely expensive for what they are, like $4 per box, but it was totally worth it. Most times, I would eat like six that first night. Looking back, this is disgusting. There has to be countless MSGs and tranny fats in these cookies to keep them so perfect. And they definitely have like 27 grams of fat per cookie. Healthwise, it doesn't make sense to eat them often, or at all. I guess it was a couple weeks ago when Harry brought some to our house. I only ate one that first night. But the cookies continued to speak to me while they were here. I had this, what turned out to be controllable, urge to eat the whole box. But with Ben here, it didn't seem right to let him in on the true animal I am when it comes to gorging on cookies. Not that it is a problem all the time, but sometimes it is.

I limited myself to eating just one of these cookies a day. Until the end. There were two cookies, and I felt I deserved them both. I don't think I was feeling bad, I just really wanted to eat them both. The thing about these cookies is that I don't think it matters how many you eat, they cause your body to do internal convulsions from all the toxins in them. My "allergies" started to act up right when these cookies came back into my life. The congestion, the nose running, the ears itching, the throat sore-ing. And I think that only now I am beginning to recover. Those cookies are so delicious, but my body cannot handle them despite what seems to be their power to give me this husky rapper/smoker voice.

I hope you're not too sad about those bitches over at Entertainment Weekly. Just promise me you won't turn to Barbie cookies to make you feel better. It will seem like a good idea to eat six in a single sitting, but your body and mind will hate you, even if they might compel you to record a rap album. Write back!

Jon

4.5.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Today we were coming back from Whole Foods. I guess you could call me a yuppie or bougie, whatever. Their flowers are beautiful and they have all that cheese to sample. I'm living the dream. I know you understand! We were coming back, driving home when I saw this man who I immediately judged as homeless. That makes me feel a little guilty, but there are plenty of people who have homes and food that always look a little lost and a little dirty. You know the type, they don't bathe frequently and they always wear the same clothes every day. But this was my first encounter with this sir. He had on one of those hats that homeless guys like, ones like trucker hats but perhaps were actually stolen from a trucker and not borrowed from Ashton Kutcher. I am also pretty sure that he was wearing a full denim outfit, which under certain circumstances is completely acceptable. Here, not so much. This man could have been my Uncle Frank, with the hat and all that denim. But it was that he was creeping out from between these two bushes carrying things in plastic bags, probably all of his possessions. I am, however, convinced that those bags were carrying his purchases from the nearby Fresh Market.

I've heard rumors that many local homeless do it more for the free stuff than because they are without home. One guy, who claims to live in the woods with his cancer-stricken wife, apparently parks his Cadillac outside the Best Buy and walks down to the off-ramp stop light to set up shop. Because I'm not enabler most of the time, I don't give him any money. But I do wonder where exactly in the nearby woods he could live. But what if he's not really homeless, and all of this is for show? I mean, that is quite the elaborate story!

But what if his daily earnings all go to buying gourmet prepared foods, like spinach and artichoke dip with fancy crackers? I want that stuff, he can want them, too! We've been told all our lives not to give homeless people money because they'll use it for drugs and beer. One guy told me the dollar I gave him wasn't enough money to include the tax that would be added to the bag of chips he wanted. I guess he didn't want Cheetos or Doritos, but something more along the lines of pita chips or even those veggie chips that aren't even potatoes or corn. Would we be so hateful and misunderstanding of homeless people if we really understand that their motives for panhandling are the same as ours? They stand on the corner, while we sit at a desk or sell pants all day. All everybody wants is designer organic fruit and some expensive cheese! This man is just trying to survive like the rest of us, and he just has extremely expensive tastes. No wonder nobody wants to go to the shelter--they don't serve free range! If I had the balls to ask someone else to pay for my gluten-free mango popsicles I would certainly do it.

This brings me to the other presumably homeless man we saw. I am convinced that he had just picked up a colleague, or a hooker, if you will. I say that because it was Sunday morning and her green velvet tank dress kind of screamed, "I screw for dollars" rather than "I am just on my way from the Lord's house". Do you think this homeless man, with his new lover, was trying to spend their pay-by-the-hour time together buying luxury groceries instead of just sex? They were headed toward the very same clearing between the bushes as the guy in denim with the Fresh Market bags.

I guess I will never know. I had to come home and put everything in the fridge before it defrosted or just died. I work hard for that money!

I heard you were at Vanessa Williams' reading of Ivanka Trump's autobiography this weekend. Why, oh why, didn't you invite me? That sounds like the most well spent evening, ever. And Michael Urie was there! Maybe we can hit up some Whole Foods this weekend and play the "Guess who is homeless" game. I hope we see Robert Pattinson. Get at me!

Jon