3.29.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

If I told you my typing is off tonight because I got a gem from the Bedazzler stuck up under my finger nail, would you believe me? I am currently preparing a firework-inspired sweater to attend a Leslie Hall show. I mean, she's pretty awesome. I think one of my friends took offense to Miss Leslie, because I like to think she thought Leslie was short of mind and that going to see her show would support the denigration of special people. Not so! This is all a hilarious ruse, a story of comedy and irony. And of gem sweaters. The Bedazzler takes for fucking ever. And my pointer finger on my right hand is currently out of comission. I guess life isn't so hard, really. I have a job, and I have time to bedazzle. That sweater isn't going to get done any faster, I need to go. Where are you!?

Jon

3.26.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Do you like to dance? I would say that it is one of my most favorite things to do, ever. In the recent past, Ben and I were discussing dancing. He likes it, but not really. I said, "Yeah, I only really like to do it when no one's around, when I'm doing laundry or something. I'm not really into it." He said, "You are a boldfaced liar!" He caught me. I love to dance. I got moves for when the dishes are getting put up, when I'm hanging clothes, when I'm brushing my teeth, in the shower, at the gym, when I'm sweeping at work. To say that I hate dancing is indeed a boldfaced lie.

I really like to think that everyone else loves it as much as I do, and if they say otherwise they are lying. In my mind, Ben loves to dance. He just doesn't want to be a "dancer". You know the type, those people who "dance". The kind that take classes, have special shoes, and probably also sing to themselves when they have one of their routine songs stuck in their heads. I swear, this girl at Coldstone last week was a prime example of this kind of person. She was singing Jennifer Lopez's "Let's Get Loud", from 1999 or so, whenever she was denying she was dating Puff and before he got Shyne put in jail for lying about having a gun in the club. Anyway, this is a really obscure J.Lo song, so of course I know it. It is also quite the Gloria Estefan rip-off. So this girl, while doing her thing to someone's ice cream, was talking about her new routine and how good it was and how much she loved it. This is the kind of person I'm talking about, a "dancer". Other varieties probably include "actors," "singers," and "writers".

This is all to say that this is not the kind of person I am. I have never taken classes, and probably won't unless Justin Timberlake is teaching it. And even then it's only so I can win the dance-off. I'm only judging this kind of person a little bit. I like to break it down, sweaty style, all over the place. I need space when I move because I have this one move where I do a back up kind of shuffle thing. And if I've been drinking, and sometimes not even then, I can get a little carried away. I mean, folks need to be seeing that I need space and it is for their own good to engage in their own backward shuffle. Hands in the air playas, back it up cause here I come! Sorry about that broken glass when I hit your elbow with my hand!

Sometimes folks will find out that I can move and want to talk about it. And it's often those "dancers". They'll invite you to weird dance clubs that are meant more for tourists than real people, simply because they music tends to be pretty good and dancing is fun. I am realizing this sounds like something I've done. But I'm not one of these people! I haven't taken classes. I only know the J.Lo song because I own the CD.

Did I just admit to owning J.Lo's first album? And maybe having bootleg copies of her other two? I don't work out routines to songs, do I? Does that one to R. Kelly's "Ignition Remix" count? I mean, it's all for comedy's sake. But it's so smooth. I believe I just admitted to knowing that J.Lo song that the ice cream girl was humming and that I've created routines. I've never taken lessons, but I did watch the dance routine sections of the DVD that came with the special edition of Ciara's "Evolution" album--does that count? Who am I? Not a "dancer". No.

Please tell me you just love dancing--sweaty, hot, dangerous dancing. No lessons, no memorized J.Lo routines, simply moves. My computer's about to die. Blarg!

Jon

3.22.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

My darling, I have not forsaken you. I used to write you while I was at work, a job that involved sitting in front of a computer for eight hours a day. Typing anything would always make me look busy, and useful, to those who would walk by. I always looked like I had something to do so they couldn't make me one of the first casualties of The Economy. Then I got a new job where I stand all day and sell pants. All of this is to say I am not ignoring you, it just takes time to write something meaningful. Quality and quantity, which I know you understand because you left SNL when it was good and before they started hiring it out to anyone who wanted to be on it just so they could have something to show every Saturday night.

This past week I was walking back to my car after work. I have to park in their weird, under the bridge parking lot that is not near the building, but not too far. And I don't have to pay to park there, so it's good. There was this car parked in a non-spot, right in front of the entrance from the sidewalk. It wasn't a police car, but the man sitting in it looked like he had on a uniform of sorts, he had epaulets on his shoulders so I figured he was of the law. But his music was kind of loud and he was in a Mercedes, which now makes me think that maybe he was just someone whose style icon is Michael Jackson. But this begs the question, why sir were you sitting in your car, epaulet-ed up, alone, in a non-spot? Were you waiting for someone? Were you using a radar gun because you were actually a member of the police squad? This spot did not lend itself to a quick exit, so maybe you were going to call ahead to your buddy posted up somewhere else and let them know the crazies are speeding and to pull over those vans of crackmoms and babies. I don't know.

When I am in a parking lot, going to the store, the doctor, work, wherever, and I encounter someone just sitting in their car, it makes me very uncomfortable. We put people in jail when they leave their children alone in cars, so isn't it weird that it's somehow more acceptable for adults to be left alone in cars, too? I mean, it's hot, there's no fresh air, and for pete's sake, we don't know what you're doing. That may be the part that gets me the most--I don't know what you're doing or what you're about to do if you're just sitting there in the car.

I guess it's the not knowing part that makes me so uncomfortable. Parking lots are generally where the cars sit while you're doing something--shopping, eating, being awesome. Well, I guess other things can happen in parking lots. In high school, me and my friends found ourselves in parking lots quite often, not in our cars but standing around. We could never make up our minds about what to do or where to go because we had just spent our allowances and wages from the grocery store on a decadent meal at Sage Brush Steak House. We didn't want to watch a movie at somebody's house, so we would end up shooting the shit for a few hours in the K-Mart parking lot. This is not the same as being a lone individual, sitting in car, not knowing what their next move might be. For me, if you're by yourself sitting in a car in a parking lot trying to figure out if you want to go watch a movie or go to Sonic for a slush, maybe there are other, larger things going on in your life.

There's just something about those folks sitting in their cars that raises many questions for me. Are you alone? Is suicide on your brain? Did your homie/lover/friend go in to get some sugar cookies and Cherry Coke Zero? Are you just trying to get some rest from your crazy children? Do you have a gun and are going to shoot me the second you stop staring? Seriously, why are you just sitting in your car, you're at Target!? Maybe there are some things that don't have answers, that I'm not meant to understand.

I should go. I'm realizing I don't have much more to say and that you may be one of those people currently sitting in their cars. I hope Minsky's is going to work out. Fingers crossed.

Jon

3.16.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I was wondering if when you ever get bored if you sometimes feel like taking a shower? I have totally already bathed today and was just sitting here thinking about something to do and all I could come up with was taking a shower. My skin is dry as it is, what with all the cold air and the machine-manufactured heat pumped into every and all buildings and the fact that I always forget to put on lotion until my knuckles are ashy and cracked like I'm homeless. Technically and physically, it doesn't make sense for me to take a shower right now.

Ok, sometimes, I may go two maybe three days without a shower. I can't lie. I'll even go to work and everything. I throw my head under the faucet in the tub, rub some Magic Move in my mane and get moving. And by moving I mean head to the couch to make sure I catch last night's Daily Show and Colbert Report before I go to work. Maybe that's where all my extra morning time is spent? Hmm.

But seriously, sometimes I go a little bit without a shower and now it's been like four straight days with a shower and tonight I want to make it twice in one day. I just thought for a second about whether or not I was projecting dirtiness onto my body from some other sort of sub- or unconscious place. Nope, not there. All aspects of my life are clean. I think I may just like to take showers. The hot water always feel so good. And showers tend to always smell nice, with those soaps and shampoos smelling like apples and peaches. My shampoo is actually kind of medicinal smelling, as I use it to treat my head psoriasis--it's not exactly fruity delicious, but that's where my conditioner comes in to counteract all the odorous damage done.

Maybe I need/want to take another shower. I may just end up eating some cake. Peace out. For now.

Jon

3.13.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I was just thinking today about Y2K. It seems like all this doomsday craziness that results from These Economic Times mixed with the current financial situation and that conversation that took place last night between Jim Kramer and Jon Stewart has me thinking about what the end of the world might look like. I mean, not the actual end of the world, but more the end of the world my 15 year old self envisioned as a young child alarmist.

I remember being quite scared of two things as an adolescent: an "Independence Day"-style alien attack and Y2K. It seems like I have memories of crying for hours about how scared I was about each of these possibly happening individually, or worse, at the same time. Something about being blown up by hateful aliens who don't even know my name or possibly having to start using horses again because none of the cars work anymore because all the computers in the world and in our cars could not make the transition into the 21st century made about four or so years of my teenage life really taxing. These times don't seem as taxing as that one summer I spent gorging myself on sugar cookies and Coke and not understanding why I was constantly in the bathroom. At the time, I thought perhaps I had AIDS. Apparently I was just eating for time. I feel like this is what Oprah does to you--makes you scared of everything so that you can find solace in her loving spiritual arms. Well, my Oprah's arms look like crazy-fat-lady-wing-arms and were not exactly welcoming because I couldn't breathe through all the cocoa butter she uses to scent herself and all the actual butter that drips off her face.

So Y2k had me scared. I made my parents, in their two separate homes, stockpile goods so that we could survive the impending doom. We ate off of the green beans my dad collected until 2005. Beyond the green beans, I'm not sure what else we had except these two giant water things. They weren't jugs, they were shaped much more like plastic gas tanks you might use in a john boat. But we poured water in them because I didn't want those guys down at the water place to put my life in danger by either delivering dirty water to my house or by their computers shutting down and not knowing that we needed water. It's so weird how writing all this out makes me feel about this time. My parents totally gave into everything, every fear and crazy whim. I had my mom collect vegetable seed packets so that we could grow our own vegetables and grow enough to barter in case of the Y2K and money meant nothing. And I don't exactly remember anyone, maybe my sister did, really protesting any of this. I like to think it was my mom's idea to use vegetables for money in the new 21st century lifestyle we could expect. But we'll say it was me and just ask why no one stopped and shook any of us, namely me, and asked what the fuck was going on.

Did you think about where you might find horses to get you to your grandma's house? Or maybe about how many cucumbers could get you a gun? I mean, hey, guns don't need computers to work. Guns would survive the computer crash! Somehow we did not believe our Buick Regal would, although we did debate whether or not it was new enough to have any kind of computer technology in it. I wanted to believe that it didn't and that we could use it to drive to Mexico and seek refuge somewhere safe, because obviously America was going to become all Marshall Law and at least in Mexico there might already be a bean farm or something where we could become slaves. Did I just wish I intimate that Y2K prompted me to wish I was Harriet Jacobs or Sally Hemmings? Do you see how kind of insane this thought process was? Again, how did I survive living anywhere, much less this pre-apocalyptic America?

I guess it all was kind of for nothing. In what became a weird trend for much of the early 00s, my dad came to my mom's house to watch the ball, or the world as I expected, drop. For being divorced, they seemed to come together for my craziness. I wanted us all to be together in case the worse might happen. I was a little disappointed when nothing did happen at midnight. I mean, no flicker, no flash, all the lights still on and Dick Clark still rocking. I guess there's something to say about being prepared. I always did love green beans.

I hope you are well. Please write.

Jon

3.7.09: Pt. 2

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I'm watching the Sex and the City movie for the fourth time and drinking beer. It seems those two activities may be the most indicative of who I am, more than, well, maybe anything. I will say, however, that I only watch the movie for that scene where Charlotte yells "No" toward Big's face after he leaves Carrie in the stacks. I also watch it for the sweet reunion of Miranda and Steve on the Brooklyn bridge. That makes me cry hard every time I see it. I've even cried when it was on mute. My friend Sarah, Ben and I saw it in the theater. Sarah and I were crying our eyes out; Ben was cracking up. I love that moment when Mir and Steve realize what's happening--ahhh. Ok, and the clothes are outrageous and I kind of looove Cynthia Nixon, whose total hottie makeover that occurred for this film and its press tour was insane. Bitch is hott.

So what I'm really writing to you does not at all involve Sex and the City, although you were funny when you guys did that spoof of it on SNL. I was busting the cap off this beer I found in the fridge. It's a little old, and the flavor is not what I'm into. And it reminded me of when I was eating lunch at this bar last week. All that's near my store are bar/restaurants, so I often end up eating more french fries at these places. Anyway, I was sitting at the bar eating this kind of disgusting spicy bean burger. I have no problem with it being all spicy, but melted cheese and mushrooms don't really go with the spice beans. It was not good. I'm sitting there, watching some muted ESPN (it seems like I watch a lot of TV muted), and noticing these folks who just walked in.

They were also on their lunch breaks. I think they were like three guys and a lady. The lady ordered soda. One guy decided he wanted to drink a beer. I wasn't judging, it was like 1:30pm, but one of his friends mentioned that he wouldn't let him drink alone. I don't really find that drinking beer counts as like pre-5 o'clock drinking. It does mean it, but it doesn't mean it. I feel like if you're downing Southern Comfort or anything with a hardcore liquor in the middle of the day that it's a little weird, and I judge a little.

Beer, whatever. But what kind of hit me in the wrong way was that this guy was all, "What kind of IPAs do you have?" For me, people who are beer snobs are a little like people who don't eat certain brands of canned vegetables. I understand it may taste different, but baby, it's also kind of the same. *Break, Charlotte just pooped her pants. The time is not now, but I once pooped a little in my pants in the library as a kid. Okay, I might have been like 13. My stomach started rumbling, I got up to do the weird walk you do when you know you need to hit that toilet, and then I kind of pooted. No, farted. It was disgusting. Annnyway.

Ok, so there may be some beers that taste different from others. When I'm feeling like a baller, I buy some Stella from the grocery store. But generally when I got out, I get some PBR or Bud Light. I mean, you have to drink something when you go out, and no one really looks at you when you're drinking, so I feel like it's okay to drink the "shitty" stuff. I mean, we all get some house liquors on those $2 well drink specials. But there is a particular kind of person who gets very particular about their beer. Maybe I just don't get it because I also think most all beers taste a little alike, except those dumb IPAs. They are too dark and too gross.

No one orders, say, brussell sprouts by special request at a restaurant because they are gross, right? You may eat them on the side if they come with your meal, but the consensus is that they are gross. So are IPAs, to me. Maybe I'm the weird snotty one here. Who knows--I'm watching Sex and the City, the Movie. I mean, whatever.

Jon

3.7.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

First, I almost dated this letter 08 instead of 09. Second, before I ate dinner last night, I had only eaten one peanut butter sandwich, some chips, some apple sauce, and an apple. I'm not anorexic, I think I just like to eat like a toddler sometimes. The kicker here is that I had been awake since 4:30 thatmorning. All of that confessed, for dinner I ate a bag of frozen french fries and some popsicles. Normally I would also eat the entire box of popsicles but I think the whole bag of french fries might have done that. Most often when we have the frozen fries, I share this bag with Ben. Why did I eat the whole thing? Ok, I think I know. They are kind of amazing, and I love them.

There was a time, maybe a week ago, where I ate pizza for four days straight. Not for every meal, but pizza was either breakfast, lunch or dinner each of those four days. It was kind of gross, but it didn't stop me from eating some pizza earlier this week. My goal is to not eat french fries again today after I ate them yesterday and the day before. I must bring my lunch to work today and not buy it out. Must.

Can you believe it's already the seventh of March? I mean, am I old or am I old when I'm almost constantly referring to how fast time seems to move and how I can't believe 2002 was seven years ago. I graduated high school then. I swear it seems more like it was only three years ago or something. But that was when I graduated college. Geez oh pete.

We had quite the debacle this week with a dog we adopted but then have back last night. She's a cutie, but bitch is needy and spicy in a salty way. She wasn't much of a fan of our other dog, which was many of the reasons why we wanted to get another dog. It's all behind us now, but it hasn't stopped us from looking for another dog. We're working on it. We will only sort of miss you Janet I, enjoy your new life!

I guess I should start moving this morning. I have to work at 10, and then my weekend starts this evening. It was difficult getting up this morning, but the coffee is brewed and the cereal is getting soggy in milk. Talk soon? Ok.

Jon

3.1.09

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I find it hard to believe that it is already March. Didn't it feel like we were just doing the thang for New Year's? But I guess the time really has passed since then because it now says that the new month begins with a three. I was reading this review or preview, or something, about Jimmy Fallon's new late-night show that mentioned that he should bring you on to add the lady perspective to an otherwise ball-filled late-night world, save for Chelsea Handler. I would hate for you to be relegated to his sidekick. I mean, we've seen how he acts in movies where he is the lead (Am I the only one who saw "Fever Pitch"? Which, by the way, should have been the vehicle for your Denise Zasu. Whatever.) and he kind of sucks. I may watch an episode or two to see what it's all about, but please promise me you won't become Chuy.

It's raining again today. It was just starting to warm up a bit, but I guess it's still the winter because it is now cold and wet. Have you ever wanted to play in the rain? I feel like that is something that we as children are always wanting to do. As an adult, shit, even as a kid, I was never much of a fan of being wet if I had a choice. If I wanted to play in some water, I could take a shower. I would avoid wet rides at Six Flags because of that uncomfortable feeling and sound that comes from wet shoes. Oh, and that gross feeling of your clothes sticking to you because your wet and it's hot as fuck and you have become the human humidity machine. Something about wet clothes and hot Georgia summers does not appeal to me. Gross.

We may be getting another beagle today. I won't lie--I'm both super excited and a little nervous. Rescue dogs are real sweet, but also a little crazy. I hope she doesn't poop everywhere when she gets nervous. I also hope dudes don't make her nervous, as my first dog got whenever dudes came around. She'd just let it piss, right there. Poor thing. The decision has been made that whether or not our new dog is male or female their name would be Janet. There's something so progressive about a male dog named Janet. He'd, I mean, She'd be a transgendered dog, perhaps the first of her kind. That's very special, you know. We can't get inside the heads of animals, so I figure we could save at least one animal from all the turmoil of the woman-in-man's body that m-to-f trannies have to go through by just taking care of at least giving her a girl's name. The parts are already gone, might as well go all the way!

I've lost track of where this was headed. I was distracted. I should probably go take a shower or something. Probably not. We'll talk soon.

Jon