Dear Rachel Dratch

10.10.2011

2011-10-10T12:56:00.002-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Apparently something crazy happened on last night's "Breaking Bad". I wouldn't know; I don't watch the show.

Over the past ten years or so there have been some really great shows that generally appeal to people like me: young, have enough money to have the luxury of having cable that includes channels like the Food Network and AMC, and people with time to make a habit of devoting an hour or so each week to watching. Shows like Breaking Bad, The Wire, Mad Men, and other shows that come on Showtime, HBO, etc. have done really well with my demographic and with awards programs. They have great writing, great actors, and enough money to continue making their programs. I generally get on the wagon a little late, though.

Take 30 Rock for example. I didn't start watching the show until season two. I found season one at Target during their crazy holiday promos. I instantly devoured it. It's hilarious, at least to me. The critics love it, the award shows love it, but it does not have a huge audience, like many of the other shows I mentioned. But I made time to watch the entire first season--it was easy, each show is approximately 22 minutes and they are hilarious. You can bust out a few episodes in half the time you would spend watching any of these other hour-long dramas.

I have not been able to get into any of these other shows because the commitment is too much. I once watched the first season of Heroes (another critically acclaimed, yada yada yada). I lost like 23 hours of my life because I got so absorbed. The show wasn't that good and I will never get that time back. I cannot take another risk like that. Season two was a total stinker and I stopped watching after the third or so episode. The same thing with Lost. I watched the first two seasons back-to-back before I started grad school. I was totally hooked. Then the first few episodes of season three were horrible, they were doing that weird split season craziness, and I got totally out of it. More time wasted.

So all these shows are things I should be watching. I feel like I can be hip sometimes and I love television, so it totally makes sense. And if not these shows, then I should have been into Battlestar Gallactica, Smallville, Buffy, something like that. Maybe I don't like dramas. I do love to laugh. After I spent all that time with Lost during the first few months of grad school, I switched instantly to my old stand-by, Friends.

I was very late to the Friends train. Even though I totally had a Friends poster up in my room as a young baby gay, I never watched the show until I got into college and at that point the show was on its tail end. My sister and I bought my mom season one as some sort of gift. She hates anything on DVD, movies included, so she never really got into it. But me and my sister watched all of season one over the course of two days. It was easy--the 22-minute format is great. And it's light hearted, has nothing to do with meth, Baltimore, and there's no real asshole on the show except for maybe Chandler.

As I am writing this, Ben and I started discussing this very topic. I said I don't care about watching many of these shows because it's such a time commitment and you have to watch so much television filler to get at the good stuff. Then he made the argument that some of these shows were originally designed with an end date in mind, whereas others like Lost and Heroes started out with the intention to be on TV forever so they had to stretch and make stupid decisions about plot and character to be able to make their 22-episode deliveries. I guess when you only have to make 13-episodes and you know you're only going to be on TV for five seasons, you can edit out the poop and get to the good stuff. Case and point: Sex and the City.

When that show began, HBO and the creator DUDE (because let's face it y'all, SATC was a show about women ultimately brought to life by a man and not Candace Bushnell. Most of the first couple seasons were written by this dude and the women writers and ultimately SJP as producer hopped on board later than most people want to really own up to) they knew they were only getting into six seasons, a la The Sopranos. When you know how long your show's going to be on, you can be more interesting and have better scripts because you don't have to make up things to fill in multiple years because you know your time is finite.

SATC did well because it was a half-hour, it was hilarious, and we knew it would end. Friends began to take a dark turn because it just kept going and going and going. Certainly, there are moments in the later seasons where it is hilarious, but not quite as hilarious as in the first few seasons. I'd say that SATC remained continuously entertaining because they could use only their best jokes and didn't have to scrape the trash bin to recycle duds (although the argument could be made that most of Charlotte and Samantha's jokes and storylines were pretty, well, leftover).

Okay, so maybe I should spend some time with some of these shows. But dang y'all, I don't know if I have it in me to sit down and watch The Wire. It takes so long! And it's not funny. I like my shit to be light. This is why I love trashy television. Rachel Zoe, The A-List, anything featuring RuPaul. These shows are entertainment because they don't take themselves seriously. It is not that big of a deal to me that Snoop got shot on The Wire; didn't she really have it coming? I mean, hello, you deal drugs or something in Baltimore. It would be insane if Miranda got shot, and totally unexpected! And I sort of feel like comedies, because they don't take themselves so seriously, can be more free with what and how they write. And I find that more creative and interesting. And the same with stupid reality shows. The cast are always a bunch of bobos, and maybe because they do take themselves so seriously but their stakes are so low is why I like it. It's not going to be the end of the world if Rachel Zoe doesn't get the right dress for Anne Hathaway for the Oscars, but it is funny to watch her slug back coffee and not really eat anything ever all the while knowing everything will be okay. All sorts of contradictions here, but whatever.

Long story short and the more I think about it, I think I'm not into certain dramas because it is thought that I should be into those shows. I hate when I feel like I should like something just because people like me should like it. And that makes me hate it. The A-List reunion, hosted by Wendy Williams for the second year in a row, is coming on tonight. I need to go spray tan.

Jon

9.20.2011

2011-09-20T10:48:00.003-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

A good friend of mine wanted to know if working a retail schedule and, ahem, 40 hours a week really allowed me to be fully creative outside of work when it comes to my writing. She's had a great job for a few years now but is contemplating a move across the country to fully pursue her dream. Of course, I am fully encouraging and loving this move. But, I don't know if there is any job where you're doing the 40 and you can still get your write on on the side.

The day I got fired from a job a few years ago I went and saw that movie, "Julie and Julia". I love me some Meryl Streep and food, and I was feeling down so it only made sense that I emotionally ate popcorn while I watched a movie about a lady who is emotionally cooking food to get her life together. Julie is the main character. This woman who works a regular 9-5 would get up at the break of dawn to write out her latest recipe and the trials she managed trying to get that dish to the table. Maybe I just love sleep, but I have never been able to make myself get up earlier than otherwise necessary to get work done, no matter the amount of coffee that is ready. But she made it a habit to get up and get going first thing in the morning. In my mind, I've always had this as a goal--that no matter my weirdo schedule, I can always get up, get some coffee going, and get some writing in before the day takes off.

I can see how this regular schedule works. If you work the same shift the same number of days per week, and you always have the same days off, you can totally swing a side hustle of sorts in your down time. As it currently stands, my schedule tends to be all over the map. Sometimes I go in at 7, sometimes I go in at 3. Sometimes I get done at 4, other times I get done at 2am. It sounds insane but it works for me in terms of living. Ben's schedule is also kind of weird and flexible so the two combined work.

I have even reached the point where I don't mind closing the store at night. I love having a long lazy morning of slugging mugs of coffee while I play computer solitaire. I am not productive at all in terms of my creative self, but damn, I just watched all of the previous day's fashion show videos and I just won three straight solitaires, clearly I am doing something right. But there is a sort of guilt there too sometimes because I feel like I do have things to say and stories to tell but I don't make time to do it.

The past two months at work have been the most trying of my short career. Girl, I hunkered down in my house and didn't speak to a soul when I wasn't at work. I didn't write a word. I barely spoke to anyone at work about anything. "You, go on your break now. You, you can go when she comes back." That was the extent of it for most days, I feel like. The isolation I was feeling, when combined with working even longer and weirder hours sometimes, do not make a blog or a life run.

Then the crux of all work problems disappeared. I now come home and instead of ranting and sometimes crying, I am telling funny stories about customers and my colleagues again. The weight dropped and my shoulders loosened up. I am wondering if I can make time outside of work to write a little. I have this great idea for a book and I even have some early ideas already sketched out. Everyone who I've run the idea past love it. That is great, right? And now like all things we want to do but don't know if we can, it just sort of sits on me to get it done. Yes, my schedule is bizarre but I manage to make time to read a bazillion fashion blogs and magazines, can't I take a little bit of that time and do something else?

I subscribe to, I think, four different fashion magazines. Then I got a Barnes and Noble gift card which let me purchase like three more September issues. On Friday, I almost vommed from too much fashion! There is no famine of beauty in this house! So I really can make time, even too much time, to do things I want. If I can know the ins-and-outs of Marc Jacobs and the possibility of his going to Dior, then maybe I can drink another cup of coffee and get up a little earlier and just do it.

I realize now that this is pretty much what I would tell my friend Maura. If you want to do it, then do it! The only thing that would hold you back if you are working a wonktastic retail schedule is you. I don't do shit sometimes because I'm a little lazy bones and enjoy just sitting around, thinking about my next sweatpants purchase. I just love all sweatclothes, okay!? You can totally have time to do a little writing or painting or sewing, or whatever, if you just don't do something else that is less productive. It can totes work.

I don't know if this letter is less to Rachel or more to Maura. But this is where things sit right now. I'm going to go make an appointment to get my oil changed tomorrow because I just realized I sort of sat and coffeed away my morning just now--solitaire and fashion, their love is my drug.

I like your beard.

Jon

6.16.2011

2011-06-16T16:32:00.003-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

After several years of convincing myself that I was fine being pale during the summer, that it was better for my skin if I didn't get too much sun, and that I should probably avoid the sun so I don't look like Janice Dickenson, I decided that Summer 2011 is the summer of the tan.

I regularly threaten to get a spray tan because I think they're hilarious. Tanning, in any kind of way, is hilarious. It's completely vain. You are laying there, whether in the sun or in a bed of crazy intense lights, waiting for your skin to change colors so that you will look different. It could be said that it's no different that getting a hair cut, but when have you ever been accused of you're skin being too long or so smelly that you need to take care of it? Never. We're never so taken aback by someone so not tan that we tend to only notice tans when they are crazy thick, i.e., Snooki.

All of that said, there is still something very sexy about a tan. The summer after my senior year in college, my friend Megan and I got a little tanning package at this place near the Food Lion. As it turns out, this was also the summer that we last took family portraits and I was looking toasty. My sister outed my tanning to my mom and dad while we were on vacation, as if it were some deep, dark secret. "So Jon, why are you so brown these days?" I admitted it and I admitted that I liked it. I mean, let's be real, the mix of the hotness of the lights with that crazy fan they blow on you is kind of intoxicating. I would just lay there and drift off to the sounds of light rock and dream about what I might look like if I took this as seriously as Hulk Hogan.

That was not my only experience with the tanning bed. In Fall 2008, I was going to a wedding and I thought I needed to be tan to look my best. I don't think I was working full time yet but somehow I managed to scrape together enough cash to afford another set of tanning salon time. Looking back, I'm not sure how this happened but when something is a priority, you have a way of making it work.

Something was a little off this time around, though. For whatever reason, I decided to tan fully nude. The last time I kept my underwear on, which made sense because it's kind of gross otherwise. But this time, with caution in the wind, I laid it all on the bed. This turned out to be a gross misunderstanding between the tanning bed and my body. I am now wholly convinced that certain parts of your body are not meant to see the sun. I will scream this at nudists worldwide, if need be. Your butt and thighs should be your natural color so that you can maintain some element of humanity that the tanning salon takes away from you. When you tan, you are doing something sort of natural, but also mostly unnatural. Well, when you tan in a tanning bed. I don't mean to get all judgy, but I have reasons.

I got the worst sun burn on the backs of my legs throughout this experience. Every time I'd think it be different, I strip down to the buff and come out of there wailing, "What have I done!? Whaaat have I done!?" I don't know if this was a different machine than the one I used the first time I used a tanning bed or if I was just allergic to their cleaning products. But it all just ended in regret. I had to stop going because the pain was too unbearable. My body couldn't take it and that was when I decided it was probably okay for me if I just avoided getting a tan. I worked inside all the time anyway so it was pretty unnatural looking on me, especially if I hadn't been to the beach or anything. I had no explanations for a tan and the pain was too much.

So all that now being said, I have become obsessed with getting a tan this summer. On multiple occasions I have even had my credit card out, ready to purchase some time at my local Sun Tan City. However, seeing as I only now understand how frivolous this can be, at least for me, in the last week I have taken to going to the pool and laying out. And by in the last week, I mean twice over the last three days. This is all natural and doesn't cost a thing. This should work right? After all my judgy comments and hateration, all I want to do this summer is to look like a beach bunny. Or at least to be able to pass for a Californian. Oh, I have also become obsessed with California being where I possibly want to live. Notice the word "want". I haven't yet fully come to terms with this bizarre thought, so don't expect much more right now. But I can at least begin playing the Real Housewives of the OC part now by getting golden brown.

Or I could look like Janice and Snooki's brother. I do love me some pomade.

Jon

4.11.2011

2011-04-11T19:41:00.003-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am not so secretly back on the caffeine wagon. About two months ago I made a big to-do about how I was going to give it up for real, how it was better for my body and my life, and how it was going to be so hard to live without that cup of coffee first thing in the morning. I also thought, what the hell, I'll even give up soda, too, except for that occasional Coke for when I'm wanting some.

That turned into I'll just do a soda every now and then, when I have to be at work at 7am. I slid even further when I decided that I would just down a 5-hour Energy drink on those days which has the "same amount of caffeine as a cup of coffee" but without the stomach upsets. I do believe that statement.

And then it turned into me just getting a coffee from the coffee place every couple mornings when I was in early. All of this, I thought, was on the sly and that nobody knew. I was so drinking coffee again and it would just be my little secret. It's no so secret when you smell like your fifth grade teacher Ms. Travers and you are super excited about everything, prompting people to ask you, "Did you drink coffee today?"

Secret coffee drinking = fail. Full disclosure: I have been mixing one cup of coffee with one 5-hour Energy drink some mornings. I have yet to alienate any co-workers, but one girl did get frustrated when I made her re-do a table three times because I may have told her three different things because I couldn't remember exactly what I said the first two times. Either way, I am drinking coffee again and I'm feeling less guilty about than in the past.

Ain't nobody holding it over my head that I enjoy drinking coffee. I had to give it up, sort of, in the first place because this new medicine made it taste funny to me. And that's not even a side-effect! But I figured it was impetus enough to give it up after discovering that there was nothing wrong with my guts and that all my stomach issues could not be accounted for, not even by an IBS diagnosis.

The flavor, though, and the ritual of my coffee drinking, and perhaps an addiction to caffeine, proved too much. And there wasn't much fan-fare when I started carrying around a little red cup, with its cardboard hand-protector, just a, "Oh, I knew you couldn't give it up. It's just too good."

All of this is to say that I am glad that I haven't and won't reach my grad school levels of caffeine consumption (despite my coffee and 5-hour cocktail). A little coffee here and there isn't too bad. I mean, I was once drinking like eight or ten cups of coffee a day and then walking around in the middle of the night wondering why I couldn't sleep or get any work done. That was then.

What a crazy person.

Jon

2.21.2010

2011-02-21T13:46:00.005-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

It wasn't until a day or so ago that it finally hit me that I am that freaky/crazy neighbor folks may make up stories about. We were discussing our eccentricities when I asked Ben, "Do you think people look at us when we're out with the dogs and say, 'There goes that crazy dude!'"

He looked down at my sweatpants tucked into my rainboots as I was about to head out into 70 degree whether and said, "Yes."

I never intended to get real crazy. But I must admit that I wear these rainboots with shorts, too. Like cutoff sweatpant shorts. The kind I just bought after having fantasized about them for a week. I am trying hard to make cutoff sweatpants happen, and in some places they have already caught on. But not where I live. And especially not when accessorized with green rainboots.

When I get ready for work, I keep it pretty good looking. And by good looking, I mean normal. The color combos can sometimes be bright and a little out of control but they work. The same cannot be said for what I wear to the gym or around the house. In addition to the cutoff sweatpants, I have a pair of gold gym shorts that I love to pair with garish colored tees when working out, like green, purple, and light blue. It's the gym--not a fashion show. And if it is a fashion show, my statement is clear: I like it crazy.

As I've become older, my taste has changed. Where I once wore oversized denim and Nike Air Force Ones, I still love jeans but they're snug and with Jack Purcells. I've never been afraid of color. I have become less into bizarro shirt and tie combos. I'd rather keep it simple, with a sort of crazy shirt with a solid tie rather than pairing the shirt with some sort of crazy color or striped tie. But when I'm at home, it is no holds bar. Right now, I have on some giant sweatpants, a cardigan that is also made of sweatshirt material, a t-shirt, and some blue house shoes. And if it gets cold tonight, I will gladly tuck the sweats into my boots when I take the dogs out.

Maybe my style is a little crazy, but to me that's what makes it awesome. I'd rather see somebody look amazing with something just a little off that really takes it somewhere rather than someone who is perfect, h-to-t.

Jon

1.14.2011

2011-01-14T20:04:00.004-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

There is never really a good time to bring up stress crafting. There is never a good time to bring up most of what we do to take the edge off, or to bring us down when we're wound up. Sometimes I eat my feelings, especially when I am feeling like blue corn tortilla chips. Sometimes I paint my feelings and they take the form of a picture that looks so child-like that an actual child may have painted it. My mom once took all three of these paintings I did and created a mini-gallery in her house for me. The kicker is that this gallery existed behind her bedroom door and could only be seen when the door was shut. The other kicker is that a twenty-year old me is the one who painted the beauts, not an actual child.

So while many times I would just eat my way through whatever I was letting bring me down, there have been very distinct periods where instead of turning to food I would instead turn to crafts, in general. I don't know if painting is exactly a craft so I'm not going to count it. But I think it was after my freshman year of college, a couple friends and I got really into making bracelets, necklaces and tye-dying. My friend Megan went up to a school in the mountains and came back a changed lady. I mean, she was always kind of crafty and into hippie-ish things, but there was something about that spring semester that really left her with a thing for creation and it rubbed off on me.

I learned all about how to make hemp necklaces and bracelets from Megan. The tye-dying we did was not very good, and everything ended up a weird shade of purplish brown. Gross. I remember spending a large amount of late-night time up at the Wal-Mart in the craft section debating over which bag of wooden beads would be the best purchase or which thickness of hemp I really wanted to work with.

The thick kind was clearly too hippie for me. You remember those dudes and possibly ladies who wore those really thick hemp necklaces, right? I always kind of judged them because hemp that thick is ridiculous. But something too thin wouldn't work either. I wasn't trying to have my jewelry be a non-presence. I needed to make a statement when I stepped out wearing these things. What kind of statement? Maybe that I'm super cool because I am wearing a hemp and puka-shell necklace. Or maybe that I am so crafty that I can recreate styles from Claire’s at a fraction of the cost. We did contemplate selling these things. I'm not sure who the audience would have been, but there's always some white kids running around wearing some hemp necklaces and I just needed to find them!

We bought the medium thickness and got to it. The first few times we made jewelry, we would go at it for hours. This was before any of us really drank alcohol so were stonecold sober and making necklaces. It was really fun. It'd be me, Megan, and my friend Beth just sitting around discussing what kind of bead we'd want to use, what would make the most appropriate hemp necklace to wear everyday and what might be more of a special occasion piece. We'd discuss making bracelets that matched the necklaces (which is weird because all hemp kind of matches itself). I was never much into the bracelets, but let it be known that is the way to go if you are trying to break into wearing hemp jewelry.

Of course I made myself an awesome everyday piece that I instantly vowed to wear until it literally fell off my body. This necklace was great. It was simple, with just a few classy wood beads to give it the requisite oomph. But what you don't know about hemp unless you are wearing it is that that shit can get itchy. Like you'll get a little itchy burn situation on your neck if you react like me, which is to say to scratch like crazy (but not Black Swan crazy). I tried to grin and bear it. I even wore this hemp necklace in the shower. The shower! Gross. I'm not sure now how long the necklace lasted, but it wasn't much more than a few days. So maybe wearing hemp jewelry wasn't for me, but I did enjoy making it!

Sometimes I think I get why carpenters do what they do. They get to work with their hands all the time, and they just kind of work it out and make something beautiful without hemming and hawing. It can be therapeutic to create something with your hands. It's a different kind of therapy than writing because you have to think about and choose words to get your point across. A cabinet or a stool really speaks for themselves. So does hemp jewelry.

Long story long, I started to work on my hemp outside of the hanging out time with Megan and Beth. I have long struggled with irregular and crazy sleep so I am always on the lookout for a new sleep aid, be it a book, an herbal supplement, or just something to do to wear my ass out. There really is something therapeutic about working with your hands that leaves you tired and exhausted, and clears your mind right out. It can also be hell on your fingers. As was the case with hemp, sometimes I would be working my hands on necklaces until my hands were a little raw. I guess this is what it's like being a child necklace worker in Caribbean. Your fingers really start to take a toll after six hours of weaving and knotting. But you ended up with something so beautiful, like a necklace with one giant wooden bead in the middle, and you just knew all that hard work and blistering was somehow worth it.

I took to making hemp things that summer when I couldn't sleep. I would lay there for a little while and decide that my time would be better served creating a hemp belt. This belt would come to symbolize my trials with sleep and stress. My fingers would be a little raw, the strings would be flying all over the place, but I would still be working that belt. It never really amounted to much more than a few inches because it's tough working trying to weave a belt in the middle of the night when you're also trying to watch Cosby Show reruns. Sometimes I couldn't hear Cousin Pam because I would get so into making that belt that I would eventually shove the belt in the drawer and just cuddle up to her voice.

There was definitely something bizarrely soothing about saying to myself, "I'll just do a little hemp work tonight before I go to bed." It seems like this went on for a while, but it was probably just a couple weeks. But it really became a thing I was into whenever I was feeling stressed out or anxious. I wonder what might happen if therapists would just hand people a ball of hemp string and told them to have at it. Actually, that's probably how all this began: a couple stressed out hippies realized they needed something to wear with their tye-dye caftan and they just turned to the one thing they know--crafts.

This sort of makes me want to ask people who sell those weird designer-y bird houses at craft fairs to say more about their inspiration. I hated wearing hemp necklaces, but making them felt so good. I wonder if they actually hate birds, but love making bird houses. Some things we'll just never know.

Jon

1.12.2011

2011-01-12T20:08:00.005-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I once left a comedy show with toilet paper flying out of my pants. I mean, I know exactly how it got there but I'm not so sure about how long it had been there (or I guess I actually know the answer to that one, too) or why no one said anything until they did. It wasn't as if I planned on the tissue being an accessory, like some sort of flowy scarf flying from my pants waist or as if it was a white flag to the world that my pants had finally given up, thrown in the towel, and declared they were done fighting me. I guess I just didn't pay enough attention when finishing things up. The bathroom was rickety and I didn't trust the door to stay shut, and there was only one stall and what seemed to be a room of four hundred people, about half or so of which was other men who may need to use this bathroom. Oh, I don't think I mentioned that I couldn't get the toilet to flush and had to leave everything just sort of there. Except for the piece of toilet paper that escaped through my pants.

The little things that happen like this, like walking around for hours with your pants fly entirely open or realizing at the end of your eight-hour shift that you had a piece of romaine lettuce stuck in the side of your mouth that no one over the course of the eight hours told you about, that should make you take things a little less seriously. Because I know there are certainly some people who take themselves entirely seriously, I try to do my part to help them not look a little crazy, even if it would be hilarious. I will often stop a customer and tuck the tag of their White Stag blouse back into their shirt. Or I will say, "Hey, you have a little something hanging out of your nostril." All just to help a person out.

Then there are times when I see something like this, but I don't or forget to say something. There was once when a boss of mine lit into his wife for not telling him that he regularly suffers from stinky breath. It must have been a severe problem because he had like super-strength toothpaste that offered to blast off plaque and stank when you also combined it with what seemed to be almost pure alcohol tooth wash. I liked to think that he was really just drinking to make it through the day and that was what caused that weird alcoholy-smell, but I think it was probably the hippie Listerine. He got so mad at her, and I can sort of now understand why.

Sometimes in the evening, I too suffer from stanky in the mouth. And most of the time, I don't even know it. My breath will be part dragon and part old wet garlic feet and I am just yapping and yapping, getting all up in your face, trying to be cute and not even knowing what I am putting out there. Sometimes, like we all know, we can taste it when our mouth is probably erupting some stank. You know, like after you've enjoyed a nice long night of Thai food. It tasted so good, but sometimes that comes at a price.

No one at work has ever told me when my breath may have been kickin. In fact, no one I've ever worked with has ever said anything. Which means one of two things: one, I probably go around reeking havoc on people's faces often because I spend most of my day talking to people; or two, my breath doesn't start needing fumigation until I clock out. I'm not sure which it is. I have had bad breath enough times in the evening to think that it had to have started a little earlier than right as I was walking in the door. Whatever, let those fools suffer.

But maybe it is just a problem I get into at home. Or maybe I do suffer from this all of the time and the people at work are politely suffering through my rants on why not everything needs sequins or why we need to pay more attention to the male customers because they come to spend. I talk so much to everyone that I really hope no one is plotting an intervention sponsored by Crest. If anyone else is suffering, please come forward. I will not verbally assault you or make you feel bad for speaking the truth, I just need to know that I smell bad. I can fix this!

Just tell me that my breeze is blowing and I'll know exactly what to do. Otherwise you may relive my dinner and lunch, and nobody likes old pasta sauce feet!

Jon

1.7.2010

2011-01-07T20:04:00.003-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

It's the new year. Maybe it's more like, it's A new year. I feel like we think about new years the way we do about birthdays, that we are supposed to feel something different once the clock strikes whatever o'clock. Or that because that one year of life we just experienced has made us more wise or more something. Sometimes I feel like the old year was basically me just getting more cranky and finding gray hairs in my doo.

I guess it wasn't quite the new year last year when I decided to bleach my hair. I considered it for a while before actually breaking down and scheduling the appointment. Because I am a total fashion nerd I was inspired by these models who were also dying their hair bleach blonde. I figured I could and should look different and fresh. This was around December when I got it done, but it was probably October when I decided to do it. Someone asked if I was an actor and if I did this for a role. Babygirl, I am an actor and this role is called life!

After the first bleach job, I got it done two more times. I wanted my hair white white white. But my hair is regularly dark dark dark, which means I was going to spend a long time with my hair covered in the blue bleach. I was not prepared for this. I sort of knew what I was getting into because I had to schedule like a four hour block of my stylist's time, three or so for the dying and one for the cut. People got this done all the time, I told myself, I can totally handle this.

The bleach was no problem. Even though I think there may have been scabs on my scalp afterward, it never really hurt. I knew it was doing the trick because after the first round, my hair was a bright gold. There was one more bleaching to go before the toner. I survived the first bleach, so the second round was fine. But it was the toner that got me! That was no joke.

She told me it would tingle and probably feel a little funny. That's cool. I had used Pert Plus before, so I was clearly prepared for a tingly sensation. But this wasn't some kind of sensation, this was more like full on pain. Nobody ever talks about how painful this can be! I remember a season of Top Model where that girl Michelle, who also later suffered from that weird flesh disease, got her hair bleached and she damn near flipped her shit, all shivering and shaking. Because I could not really handle letting the toner do it's thing for too long, I never got to that level. I did have to sip on some red wine to help calm my nerves because all I could whisper was, "Julie, this kind of hurts."

I may have been a little over-dramatic because I also think my teeth chattered a little and I also remember whispering, "Is it supposed to feel like my hair is being slowly pulled from my head?" It hurt. But beauty is pain, and I wanted that top model beauty. I didn't quite get the color I really wanted that first time because it hurt too much. The second time was perfect and by the third I was a little over it and my wallet was hurting. I am no dancer for money, so my cash needs to pay my bills.

The blonde was a little intense and maybe not really my color, but it was fun. This past week I scheduled a last minute appointment because I was feeling ugly. I had one scheduled for next week, but the sides of my hair were getting too voluminous and making my head look all round. Not great. I went in with Henry Holland as my inspiration, but I think my cut looks more Jefferson Hack, circa 2010, but with shorter hair on top. I am making these esoteric references just so when you google them you'll realize just how insane my references are, but also know this is really what made me want this look! Chew on that!

Looking back I wonder if my new haircut has anything to do with the change in the year. I don't feel older, wiser or richer. I do feel like I really need to make a commitment to scheduling my appointments ahead of time so that I don't go into hair shock when I feel crazy and my self-esteem begins to dip because my hair is too long. Maybe that comes with age: knowing when you need to get your head taken care of and just how important it really is. This new look may be more influenced by a new fashion project I'm beginning to work on that will hopefully land me in the front rows and in the pages of magazines. I would even do magazines that are free, so if you need some volunteer styling, I got you!

*Side note: I just looked up how often I have written about my hair, and it's kind of embarrassing. Maybe I just realized how vain I am. I think I really only have one or two stories I like to tell over and over. Oops.

Jon

12.27.2010

2010-12-27T11:43:00.004-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

It may be self-hating, but I might have to say that Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream" might be one of the best songs of this past year. As I was putting together my end of the year mix I tried really hard to ignore her because of her checkered-gay-for-pay past. But I figure if I can look past the histories of Michael Jackson, Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston to still enjoy their musics, then I can certainly give KP a little credit.

And it's not even that the lyrics are particularly awesome or even good. But she can write a catchy hook (see also Kelly Clarkson's "I Don't Hook Up") and sometimes that's all I need. All this also reminds me of how much of my favorite songs of the past year are clearly those also favored by 12 year olds. I can say that I probably saw this one coming when I saw the Black Eyed Peas in concert sometime earlier this year. And when I also saw Lady Gaga. I do refuse to see Justin Bieber, but I will say "Baby" was one of my most played songs in iTunes this year.

I guess here is where I post my mix:

1. Lea Michele - Don't Rain On My Parade. I know this is from Glee and that show is kind of bizarre and pretty bad, but dang if this song doesn't make me float on air and get my arm hair raised.

2. Katy Perry - Teenage Dream. See above.

3. Justin Bieber - Baby.

4. Rihanna - Only Girl in the World. I dare you to not strut it out when you're walking on the treadmill to this one. Go ahead, wipe that sweat from your forehead because you are working it out.

5. Kelis - Acapella. I have loved this lady since the beginning. Sometimes she can do wrong, but her latest album was oh so right.

6. LCD Soundsystem - I Can Change. This song came on at work all too frequently but not so frequently that I wouldn't listen to it outside of work. I also feel like this gives me some street cred, but it's also highly pretentious. I don't care.

7. M.I.A. - Xxxo. This album was a hot mess and I really wanted to love it. This song made it into the mix mostly because I feel bad for her and her truffle fries.

8. Usher feat. Will.i.am - OMG. I wanted to hate this song when it came out, but it quickly became the song I most secretly wanted to be my ringtone.

9. Beck and Bat for Lashes - Let's Get Lost. I thought this was a song I knew from work when I first heard it during a recent Redbox viewing of "Eclipse". Now I'm not so sure, but the soundtrack of that movie is kind of good and this is the first of two songs from it that made my mixdown.

10. Karen Elson - The Ghost Who Walks. I love fashion and I love music. Hello Karen Elson. She sometimes inspires me to bleach my eyebrows, but they are crucial to my face. This also makes me feel sufficiently indie, which I need sometimes to make my purchases from Urban Outfitters that much more credible. I am indie rock music.

11. Beach House - Zebra. Not sure really sure, but this is definitely inspired by my need to feel cool. But it is a sweet song.

12. Kandi - I Just Know. And this is when I get back to just loving the music I love and not even caring about what other people might think. This chick needs my money because Bravo only pays so much. This song makes my heartstrings strum.

13. Monica - Love All Over Me. This girl I work with laughed one day saying, "Can you believe Monica still thinks people like her music?" And I said, "But girl, I have loved both singles off her latest album. And I tend to buy each album she comes out with." I have a big old place in my heart for Monica and this song is so good.

14. The Dream - Love King. I can thank my friend Lauren for turning me on to this one. We both love The Dream. His albums, his entire albums, tend to be pretty good. And this one involves spelling, which clearly makes me want to sing along and decide who is getting what, sidechicks and all.

15. Rihanna - Rude Boy. I am not cool, despite what I want to think. And I love this song. Give it to me baby, like boom boom boom. This song rocked my world since the summer.

16. Cee Lo Green - What Part of Forever. Part two of my Eclipse jams. I love a song where I can envision models getting their struts on. This songs reeks of a fashion show and makes me want to get up on the treadmill and let those folks know who gots it.

17. Willow Smith feat. Nicki Minaj - Whip My Hair Remix. Y'all, I loved this song in its original incarnation, then to go and add Nicki Minaj, Willow, you better do it! I do not care for Nicki's original/solo songs, but she can spit a hot verse on somebody else's song and I like it.

18. Kanye West feat. Raekwon and Justin Bieber - Runaway Love Remix. This songs reminds me of childhood. I hurt my neck when I was dancing to it after playing it three or four times in a row. But y'all, it was worth it. Clearly, I have no shame and love some Justin Bieber. He's okay on this one. The shining star on this is Raekwon.

19. Mark Ronson - The Night Last Night. This is the only song worth much on his latest album. I loved his album of covers but most of that had to do with Amy Winehouse and whoever did "Apply Some Pressure". Again, this is a song where I can see folks strutting it out and I have sweated out a number of tortilla chips and mint M&MS to this one. The drummer is the same from Mark's first one and finds his regular job to be with The Dap Kings. You can count on his rhythm to keep you in shape and your face dripping.

This is my music 2010. Get these songs and get to moving thangs.

Jon

12.13.2010

2010-12-13T11:24:00.002-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Because I'm bored and this looks like some old school 1999-era fun, I'm going to fill out this survey from Rodarte's Kate and Laura Mulleavy. I am very much a fashion nerd but this survey is not very fashion-y. Here we go.

Favorite play? I'm not sure if this should count, but I really did love The Color Purple when I saw it on Broadway.

What was your first love? Food.

Favorite language? English!

Who is your most loved character in literature? I'm tempted to say Truman Capote because he put himself in every single one of his stories. Maybe I'll be super weird and say Scarlett O'Hara from Gone With The Wind.

Favorite room? My living room.

Favorite place to read a book? The couch in my living room.

Favorite place in NY? This restaurant we always go to with my friend Maura where I get the most delicious vegetarian eggs benedict.

Favorite color? Blue!

Favorite painter/painting? Would it be weird to say I sort of like Mark Rothko? I like his huge pieces of one or two solid colors.

Favorite thing to collect? At one point I would have had to say import Janet Jackson singles and albums. Right now, it would probably be fashion books.

Favorite mystery? I still have no idea what happened in number two.

Favorite flower? Anything orange.

Favorite sea creature? My first pet, Freddie.

Favorite smell? A mix of whatever the deodorant is and Light Blue.

If I gave you a medal right now, what would it be for? Dealing with the crazies at the mall.

Favorite texture? The tee shirt I have on right now.

Favorite flavor? Chocolate.

What’s the first thing you think of when I say red? Ew, blood.

Night or day? Night.

Favorite villain? Ursula from the Little Mermaid.

Favorite silent film star? Er. Rudolph Valentino?

Favorite artist? Janet Jackson

Molly Ringwald or Ally Sheedy? Ally Sheedy

C.S. Lewis or Freud? C.S. Lewis

Tents or motels? Hotels, with an H. I make too much money to stay in motels. I'm talking to you Days Inn!

Favorite musical instrument? Drums.

Thunder or lightning? Thunder.

Tea or coffee? Coffee!

Wine or beer? Beer.

Lemon or lime? Lime.

Monday or Friday? Friday.

February or December? February.

Christmas or Halloween? Christmas.

Rosemary’s Baby or Hannah and Her Sisters? Rosemary's Baby.

J.D. Salinger or Jack Kerouac? Ew, neither.

Hats or scarves? Scarves.

Julie Christie or Vanessa Redgrave? Vanessa Redgrave.

Marilyn Monroe or Elizabeth Taylor? Elizabeth Taylor.

Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart? Cary Grant.

Las Vegas or Atlantic City? Las Vegas.

Rain or sun? Rain.

Spiderman or Superman? Spiderman.

Cats or dogs? Dogs.

Ice cream or sorbet? Ice cream!

Beatles or Rolling Stones? Rolling Stones.

Favorite fun fair ride of all time? Tilt-a-whirl.

Favorite sidekick? Robin.

What are the initials of the last person you kissed? Gentleman don't kiss and tell.

What characteristics do you most envy in others? Patience and selflessness.

If you could fly, where is the first place you would go? Tokyo.

Have you ever won a medal or a prize–if so, what? One time at priest camp, we came in second or third for best Bible-based skit. Chew on that.

What is your secret dream? To open my own shop in a place where people will shop there.

Favorite season? I'd say fall but we don't get much of a fall. So maybe late winter.

What is your greatest love? Helping people out.

Favorite currency? Cash money, American dollars.

Favorite city? It could be New York.

Favorite imaginary place? Oz.

Favorite planet? Mars.

Favorite children’s book? The Boxcar Children series.

Favorite candy? Snickers.

Favorite name [and it cannot be your own]? Lyle.

11.11.2010

2010-11-08T21:59:00.003-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

When I was younger, I would say that I was a betting man. And by that I mean that I would bet God. I remember always trying to broker a deal so that I could get what I wanted. It was probably all the Catholic school boy in me that gave me the idea that all I had to do to get the latest and freshest Nike basketball shoes was to ask the Lord in prayer.

The betting with Jesus became something that extended beyond prayer. There was a while where I was convinced that I was going to make the basketball team. I had not touched a basketball until I was about 13, but I figured, Hey I can totally do this. I didn't know that the other dudes my age had already been playing in leagues for five years or so. I kept trying to make the team up through ninth grade. That was when I finally threw the towel in. There was no more, "Jesus, if I make ten free throws in a row I will make the basketball team, okay?" I don't think I ever made that many because I wasn't really good. I mean, I could hang when playing against my dad and sister, but against those dudes at school, I stood no chance as a short tub of Country Crock.

My sister and I would have the most insane fights whenever we would ball. I was convinced I was a sort of Dikembe Mutumbo/Karl Malone style guy--I could just throw my elbows any-which-way and she would have to get out of my way. I never really meant to throw my elbows, but she would tell this story very differently. She would often defend against me with one arm across her chest, defending herself from my bows, and the other arm in the air to try and deflect my Sky Hook. We would end up fighting about somebody fouling somebody else, or even, "Can't you please just back the fuck up for a second so I can try to shoot something? This is just play, it's not serious!" And then after yelling this as a ten-year-old, she would hurl the basketball across the street and into the poison ivy laden woods. This was the worst. Neither one of us was particularly outdoorsy, so it was always a real pain to have to go into the woods and fish out the ball. There was some sort of big pipe, too, that would expel gross watery stuff into the woods and it was no fun when the ball landed there.

I never much prayed or made bets when playing against my sister. I mean, I look back on those times and am glad neither one of us ended up with too much damage done. The betting would come sometimes, too, when I would be up on the computer, listening to Janet's "The Velvet Rope," working on my websites, chatting with foreign weirdos in Janet chatrooms, and playing solitaire.

The memories that are left over from middle school and early high school are sort of vague now. Or I have made them vague in my mind to make myself feel better. I would spend hours on the computer before it really became something to do. And I would love to play solitaire. I have loved computer solitaire since the day my parents bought us our first computer and all it had was solitaire and Paint. What could kids do on computers in 1991? There were no programs out, so we just played fake cards and drew weird things. My love of solitaire continued through adolescence and continues today. It is a part of my morning routine most days, sipping on my coffee, playing some solitaire.

I remember making bets with God with solitaire, too. "If I win this game, God, will you please send me a pair of Air Max 95s." I was kind of convinced that God would deliver me some fly sneakers if all I did was ask for them and win at solitaire. Maybe it was the teachers at my Catholic school, or maybe it was just me being crazy, but I thought that if I just asked God for something it would just show up. And this was even as a sort of twelve year old. I never had anything to support it, and I never had any of these things magically appear. But there was a period where I really thought that if I just asked God for something, I'd get it.

They told us that if we were good and did right by other people, and were nice, blah blah, that God would provide. And damn it, I wanted shoes most of the time. I wasn't nice to people with the intention of God giving some sneakers because I am generally a nice person. But I saw it more as a perk of being nice, it just came along with the ooey gooey nice feeling you get. But I knew I had to put in a little more work to make sure God delivered, and I think that's where the solitaire came in.

I'm not sure where I got the idea from, but I still sometimes will make bets when playing solitaire. Well, not really bets but something like, "I will get up and do some laundry if I win this game." Or, "If I win this game, I will get up and get a refill of my coffee." Nothing real serious, and nothing involving God or Nikes. There was just something I took from school that told me that I just needed to do something, anything and God would deliver. We would learn all about saints and good people, and they'd be covering their faces in pepper and doing lots of crying and carrying on, and they got miracles. That translated in my head to become me winning a game of solitaire or making ten free throws in a row, and my miracle would happen, too. And that miracle wasn't curing blindness or making cripples walk. My miracle was a pair of Nike Air Uptempos, and as a crazy twelve year old, I didn't think that was too much to ask.

Jon

10.18.2010

2010-10-18T11:45:00.000-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I don’t know if I remember when it all started, but I am pretty sure my problems began somewhere around the time that I was a bodybuilder. I have finally taken it upon myself to do something so I have made an appointment with a real, Western medicine doctor. I have tried to fix things through acupuncture. Looking back on that decision, it’s kind of weird to think that I thought it made more sense to go to an acupuncturist than to a regular old doctor. Something about going to this guy made more sense, felt more safe or something. He was just putting needles all over my body, that’s cool! A real doctor would poke and pry and would make me have to literally spell out that I was a sexually active adult who sometimes indulges in too many sweets like Coke Icees or mellow pumpkins.

It doesn’t seem like it’s the Icees or pumpkins that were the ones to drive me to finally go see the doctor. My guts have been a mess for a while now. I don’t remember a time prior to 2004 or so when I wasn’t hold up in the bathroom for a few hours each morning. I remember being late to my Greek civilization class that I slept through every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday because I would get half way to class and realize I was going to die. Then I’d roll up a few minutes after class started, sit in the middle of the room and pass the fuck out. I had the gall to approach my professor about why I got a B on my first paper—I spent a lot of time on it and I was proud. I loved Egypt, come on! She said my sources were too old and newer things had better information. I couldn’t believe my ears. I mean, how much has changed about ancient Egypt since 1945 that my use of actual relics and hieroglyphics to tell Egypt’s origin story rendered my paper a B? Answer me that! She probably caught me sleeping during her class and was trying to prove a point. I guess.

Around the time I transferred up to UNC, I think that was when my belly really started to shiver and shake. Now that I think about it, I had always had a kind of nervous excretory system. It made me a wreck to have to get up out of bed, put on some clothes and shoes, and mosey down the hall to use the shared bathroom I used with the other twelve dudes on my hall. It was embarrassing! So much so that I would get so wound up that I couldn’t sleep and would have nervous pees all night. No wonder I slept in that lady’s class—I had been up all night, crawling the walls, and crawling to the bathroom for a dribble. This made me so anxious that I sought out professional help for the first time. Again, not a real like body doctor but a mind doctor.

The first time I saw a psychologist or something was when my parents decided it would be better if they ended their marriage. I talked to this lady about it for an hour or so. All I can remember is that she offered me a Coke, which I liked, and she had really nice chairs. I knew my mom had been seeing this woman for a little bit and now I could see why. I loved that she asked all sorts of questions about me, how I was feeling, what I was feeling, and how I saw things. I was probably more of a ham than my sister when I was younger, so all this attention from a complete stranger was a little addictive. In fact, it wasn’t until even recently I that I have finally weaned myself off of seeing a psychologist. Their job is to ask you questions and help you feel better about feeling insane. It’s nice.

The lady I saw about my nervous pees was nice, I guess. She was a little fruitloopy and made me feel weird. Thinking about all the different therapists I’ve seen before graduate school, they must have all known I wasn’t really dealing with a crazy bladder and the gotta-go-gotta-go-gotta-go-right-nows and that I was a just a gay dude who didn’t know it yet. But she never let on and would ask me about my caffeine habits and what time I would go to bed. I thought I was the most bizarre person because I went to sleep between two and three each morning. This is what college kids do; they stay up really late doing dumb shit like watching all six seasons of Sex and the City in the middle of the night, or illegally downloading Chicago because I was too ashamed to see it in the theater so I watched it at around one a.m. with my headphones in. I was a complete night owl, but what college student wasn’t? I didn’t think much about that part so I told myself I was crazy and I would worry about not being able to go to sleep or not falling asleep at a normal hour. She didn’t much give me a hard time about it, but her questions and my answers were not necessarily helping me out. A crazy snow storm came one day and drove me to finally seek some actual medical attention.

We don’t get much snow here in the South, but this day was a really heavy snow. And it was the day I diagnosed myself as having diabetes and needed to get some insulin and some anti-anxiety meds. I had my story completely prepared, “Doctor. I get up multiple times through the night to pee and I get very thirsty at night. I know I have diabetes and it scares me. What do you prescribe?” Here is his response.

“You probably don’t have diabetes but I will run the necessary blood tests to see if there is some kind of deficiency or malnourishment coming from your extreme Chick-fil-a diet and all those evenings of eating your dinners alone in your room. I’m not sure what’s causing you to urinate so often, so we’re going to run some tests. I am going to need you to pee in this jug for the next 24 hours. Every time you need to go, I need you to pee in this jug. That means you must take it everywhere. And it must always be cool so I’m going to need you to keep it in a cooler. I’m going to need you to take this jug so that every time you pee you pee into it and carry it with you in cooler and take it everywhere with you for the next 24 hours. Then we will see.”

That was devastating. Everyone else I knew could easily get some kind of medication from doctors for all kinds of ailments. I once actually hurt my back doing some kind of heavy-ass squat at the gym and they did give me some muscle relaxers that would knock me out. Other than that, no doctor would ever give me anything. Instead, I get the pleasure of carrying a jug of piss around for 24 hours. I took this in stride and took the jug home with me. In a fit of rebellion, I decided to not let anything stop me from doing my regular thing. I braved the snow enough to make it home to my mom’s house for the weekend. If this jug has to go everywhere with me, then I may as well show it a good time.

I brought that pee jug everywhere including the gym, the mall and Outback Steakhouse. My cooler was navy blue so it complimented everything I wore and I liked getting the weird stares from people when they saw that I wasn’t carrying a bag but a cooler when I was scarfing down my Blooming Onion. Every single time I went to the bathroom those 24 hours I used that jug. It was all very anti-climatic when I took that jug of piss back to the doctor only to find out that I didn’t have any Diabetes and that my jug came back clear of anything. That was so insane to carry that cooler of a jug of piss, and for what? I got no peace of mind. I did however stop seeing my therapist. I blew her off, she was doing me no good.

All around this time I thought I wanted to get muscle big. I started out just working out with a friend. He got huge and I wanted in on the action. During my senior year of high school I lost probably 20 or so pounds when I gave up soda and dessert for Lent. And I also may have only eaten peanut butter sandwiches and water for lunch, and worked out for at least two hours every other day. I had lost some weight and I wanted to get some muscle mass. My friend got kind of hot and I wanted to be hot, too. He was doing protein shakes and a couple other weird things that the beefhead at GNC recommended, and without much thought, I had my own cups and blenders ready.

My sophomore year wasn’t too insane. I was lifting more weight than ever, and drinking three or so protein shakes a day. My post-workout meal consisted of a 12-pack of nuggets and a chicken sandwich from Chick-fil-a. I didn’t know this at the time, but your body can only handle so much protein before it starts to spit it back out. I was getting bigger, yes. But my body was starting to react against me. Most of my meals became protein fests. I would go get my to-go box from the cafeteria, fill it with chicken and a little bit of rice, and head back to my on-campus apartment where I would down all the chicken while I watched Friends reruns. This is also when I became a Friends superfan. I didn’t have my actual friends when I was in college, so I would always come back to the one friend I could depend on: television.

The protein parties would always be paired with some sort of television watching. If it wasn’t a Friends rerun, it was probably Sex and the City. I got on that train way late in the game—I started watching it by watching the last episode. I had no idea what happened or why any of this was important so I had to start all over again from the beginning. So many nights it was just me, Carrie, and some chicken nuggets.

I didn’t necessarily get the ripped, cut-up muscles I was looking for but I certainly did get bigger. I’ve never been a size large, even during my fat days, but I was convinced that I needed to wear a large to accommodate the forthcoming muscle. I looked husky, but not in the husky-section kind of way; more like a guy who had some heft, some meat on him. I knew I was only wanted to get bigger. When I transferred schools for my junior year, I decided I wanted to get bigger. My muscle friend was at the new school and I of course wanted to live with him. He decided he wanted to join the bodybuilding club, and I was right behind him.

To be in this club, I clearly needed to gain more muscle. My body went into overdrive when I added twelve pills of various purposes, two weight gainer shakes, and more protein shakes to everything else I was doing. I was eating way more food and even drinking milk, just to make sure I got more protein! I was spending hundreds of dollars each month in hot pursuit of a hot body and all I got was three or four hours on the toilet each morning.

All the money I was spending was literally going down the drain! But I didn’t care. What ended up being the final straw was this stuff that guaranteed to get more blood pumping through my veins when I worked out which would help me lift more weight. It was fizzy and full of caffeine. At this point in life, I was not a coffee drinker so I was not used to the effects of much more than a couple cans of Coca-Cola. This shit had me bouncing off the walls. My legs would be heaving during class; it was all I could do to try and keep calm before I could get to the gym. And I didn’t understand why I couldn’t sleep! I bet the stuff was a legal version of speed. I was insane. Oh, and I was super angry!

The bodybuilding club was something else. As a homosexual, I would say this is probably the gayest thing I’ve ever been involved with. We were required to workout as a “team” or whatever at least three times a week. And we didn’t even work out at the regular, nice gym. We worked out in the old-ass, stinky gym where everything is left over from the 1970s. I convinced myself that it was cool because it was all “throw back” or something. It was just old. In addition to the workouts, we were supposed to have our pictures taken once every two months or something. We would then meet as a group and discuss our bodies in front of each other and others told us what they thought. I’ve always had a negative self-image, so this was a little stupid of me to be involved with. It was like all my fears come to life: a bunch of dudes sitting around in a room telling me that my body looked like shit. I didn’t get the worst of it—there was one guy who commented on the perkiness of another’s chest. That was weird. I was told I had great calves, which I knew! They were and are a source of pride for me. I figured if everything else wasn’t going to get super huge, I could at least have massive/beautiful calves. When the president of the bodybuilding club told me I needed to do more cardio, I almost snapped his posing strap! You don’t know my life buddy, and that is the wrong thing to say! I’ve never had an eating disorder, but that is not to say that I haven’t considered it. I once tried to go all day on just a Jamba Juice, but that only lasted through lunch.

I didn’t have many friends to begin with, and all of the added testosterone made me even less pleasant to be around. And I was shitting my brains out each morning. I was really unhappy! Oh, and my body was not at all what I wanted it to be—I was a nugget when I wanted to be a spring chicken.

The next semester, I quit it all cold turkey. No more. I decided the body I wanted was skinny. It involved way less insane eating and no gross shakes or pills. I also thought it would help get my body back in order, that quitting all the bad things would give me a semblance of a life I hadn’t known—one without huge bags of Chick-fil-a and mornings of peace and quiet. I was done with the bodybuilding club and their mess. They never really made me feel real bad about myself, but they weren’t helping things. And it was just so weird to be working out in the basement-y gym with all that old equipment that screamed Silence of the Lambs and my skin was well moisturized, thank you!

That spring I kind of spiraled downward. I didn’t bathe much and my hair was insanely huge. After all those pills and shakes, and uppers, it only made sense, I guess, that I needed to come down. But my body has never really been the same. In fact, I think my stomach has only become more sensitive. I guess it all started when I decided I wanted to get huge, but I don’t really know.

My appointment with the real doctor came and went. He was insane. It was the first time I had been to the doctor in four years for things that were not psoriasis or scabies related. He asked me about farting and crapping, and then told me I was probably pretty normal. So you mean to say that all of the chicken, shakes, and pills really didn’t do much other than make me an angry, husky, dirty mess? He drew some blood to test things out, but I haven’t heard anything yet.

My body will probably never recover. Or maybe this is just how I am. I tried to get the doctor to connect my shits to my use of Accutane. He Google’d it and told me I had nothing to worry about. Maybe as an American, I sometimes buy into the culture of fear. But my fear doesn’t involve terrorists or bombs. I’m scared of fat deposits and pooping. It could be worse.

Jon

9.29.2010

2010-09-29T14:23:00.004-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Today was the first time where it has been the most appropriate to wear a jacket outside. I have even taken to wearing a hoodie with the hood over my head while I am writing this. The weather has been super hot for the past three months. In those three months, we have received nothing but fall/winter clothes at working, making me long for colder days and nights full of hot chocolate and those weird smelling blankets that sit in the closet for the other nine months of the year.

In preparation for the coming fall, I have been stockpiling the chic since my birthday in July. I bought my first leather jacket, my first pair of boots since childhood when I mentioned in passing that it sounded like I was wearing high heels and wasn't allowed to wear boots ever again, and my first leather bag. As a vegetarian, I'm not sure how I can rationalize buying and wearing animals, so I don't. I just wear them and not eat them. In buying these things months in advance of the cold weather, I have been dying inside with the desire to put them on and wear them out in the world. I bought a couple hoodies in June and made myself wear them when I was in San Diego in July when the weather hovered around 70. It didn't matter to me--I wanted nothing more than to feel real cozy.

Because I live in the South and have lived in the South all my life, it is sometimes deep into other region's winter by the time it gets even the slight bit cool enough to warrant puffer vests (which I am pulling today to air it out as it has been sitting in the closet where we keep the dog food since I last wore it). It seems like the first opportunity to really turn it out with the fall hits is always Thanksgiving. It's always too warm to think about the big time fall clothes, the ones previously only worn while I strut it out in my living room, until then.

For me, Thanksgiving is also the first if not only time I get to see my extended family every year. Like my fall clothes, I spend a lot of time and money prepping for this. Thinking about seeing my family can make a guy crawl the walls. When I was younger and my mom would spring a trip back down to Georgia on us the day before we had to go, I would get so anxious about the car ride and not being able to stop to pee that I could not sleep. I would down several teaspoons of liquid Benedryl and tie a t-shirt around my eyes all in attempt to get sleep. The thought of not being able to readily access a bathroom and having to be in a sort of confined space for what would seem like days (but was really only eight or so hours) was often too much.

For Thanksgiving, though, I could prepare because I knew it was coming. I would load up on the Benedryl well in advance of going to sleep, and even sometimes go out with my friends the night before the drive so I could just come home and pass out after all those Sex on the Beaches--those awful fruity/peachy drinks you get if you're Carrie Bradshaw or before you realize beer is much cheaper. I would also prepare by thinking about what I was going to wear to make sure I was the most amazing looking of the grandkids and the cousins. If you looked awesome then no one would have anything crazy to say to you because your new jeans and blue ostrich shoes spoke for themselves.

It isn't always the lack of being able to hit up the bathroom or the being in the car that would make me a little nuts. It was also the thought of having to explain why I left graduate school to work at the mall or the thought of telling my grandma that I wouldn't eat her stuffing because she used chicken broth to make it and I was now a vegetarian. I used to eat all kinds of meat, mostly chicken. Turkey would also work. So the first Thanksgiving I rolled up to as a veg was a little weird when I only had Patti LaBelle's macaroni-and-cheese and some yeast rolls on my plate. But I was prepared for the carb fest by going to the gym because I knew Thanksgiving was coming. To avoid having to explain, well, pretty much anything about me, I engage in the following techniques to divert attention and to look awesome.

Clearly I prepare for our annual Thanksgiving gathering by first devising the most incredible and multi-layered outfit that allows for maximal costume changes. If the clothes are my armor, then I will wear as much as I can to deflect the crazy rants on lost retirement and the calls for liquor shots from my grandma. The next two go hand-in-hand. I would say that to make an impact at Thanksgiving, you should probably do two-a-day cardio sessions at the gym and buy smaller clothes. I love when my family comments on how skinny I look and that I need to gain weight. Nothing is worse than being in on a conversation about your uncle who has really let himself go since he became friends with Krispy Kreme and Natural Light. But if you're in great shape, your smaller clothes will only accentuate that and keep nothing but praise coming your way. This also helps avoid explaining your decision to sell pants instead of teaching at college. I just like pants, okay!? They're better than college students and they don't require that I grade papers. And they're pretty. But I could never say that to my family, not until later when they're falling over and I'm sweating away my beauty because I am forcing myself to wear my new lambswool sweater.

I almost wonder if I sometimes am using my clothes as a nerve pill of sorts. Sweaters as Clonopin, maybe. They help me prepare for the anti-climatic meal that doesn't result in anything beyond an aunt losing her shit because her daughter is a brat. They make me feel good, too. There's something about the warmth and coziness of fall and winter clothes that we don't get when we dress for warmer weather. We throw everything on in the winter in an effort to just get through the cool, the cold, the ice, and the darkness. I’m not saying Thanksgiving is a dark winter, but sometimes those family gatherings can be a little dramatic and cold. We try to look as good as possible through winter while we wait it out to get a little warmer. Only for the cycle to start over again--whether we're trying to make it to Spring or to make it to the day after Thanksgiving.

This Thanksgiving I will hopefully pull out some of the cold weather gear I've been sitting on for the past five months once the temperature takes its seasonal dip. Maybe they're armor to defend against the wind chill or the room elephants we all have whenever our families get together. But let's face it, if you bring out all the stops and are dripping in amazingness and not turkey gravy, you'll be fine. Fall clothes will keep us warm and stylish, but like Thanksgiving we are ready for it to be over after a while. Then the cycle repeats, it gets warmer and all we can dream about are sweaters, snow, and our drunk grandma.

Jon

8.28.2010

2010-08-28T21:58:00.006-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

A friend of mine revealed that if he were to win the lottery he would need to buy a mansion to house all of the scented candles, lotions, and soaps that he would buy because he loves them. He loves them! I think I kind of completely understand.

When my sister and I were younger, I swear she spent a period of her life hold up in the bathroom playing with different products. She'd have out the hard soap, the liquid soap, the shampoo, the conditioner, the detangler, the mousse, the gel, the hairspray, the mouthwash, the toothpaste, the Triaminic. She would be mixing and messing with all of these things, putting the final mix into some sort of spray bottle and call it her concoction.

This wasn't something she did in private, either. She'd be up in the bathroom, door wide open, wasting all kinds of money just to get something that smelled pretty and minty. I think she'd sometimes attack the Windex and the 409 just to make sure that if she were to ever put this thing on her body that it would also degrease and shine.

I wasn't jealous of her work when she would do this. But it does kind of make me think about my own love of face and hair products.

I don't know if I would buy tons of candles and soaps, but if I were to win the lottery a la Bow Wow, you better believe I would have the most expensive hair and face on earth. I love a good conditioner and some creamy gel to smear into my mane when I get out of the shower. I love to get a good scrub on in the shower with some kind of face wash that also contains teeny-tiny rocks that exfoliate and ultimately rip my old face off leaving me with the fresh skin of a teeny-tiny baby.

There was a phase recently when I was plat-num blond. My hair is naturally quite dark so it took some work to get up to the level where I wanted it to be. It wasn't just the dying part that was high maintenance, but the upkeep was also something that was high maintenance but also fed into my love and desire for doing my hair right. I would ask people that came into the store where I work what they did to maintain their platinum glow, or what they did to get it looking so good and natural. Nothing I did seemed to work to get it nice and soft.

My hair is already kind of crunchy and coarse and the bleach I covered it in did nothing to help it. I would go three or four days without washing it to see if some of my natural head oils might get it just a bit softer or more natural looking, like maybe some of the wave I get when my hair gets longer might return from the nuclear winter I set in motion the day I went blond. But I never had such luck.

So not washing my hair didn't work in getting my hair any softer. I would get all my hair products together and just mix them up in my hand when I got out of the shower. In the same vein as my sister, I was attempting to make a cure-all for my head that would make my hair amazing looking and take away its brittleness. Well, kind of like my sister's concoction, all I got was a head full of greasy yet hard feeling hair that only looked like a mess. It did not work and did not smell minty.

Also during this time, I tried all kinds of different shampoos for color treated hair. I had special purple shampoo that fake blonds are supposed to use to make your color last. You needed to leave it on for at least five minutes before you could rinse it out. I take quick showers and this was just too much! I had read on my T-Gel bottle that the color of the T-Gel could cause bleached hair to change colors, and I spent too much money on my hair to be fucking it up. So I went a few months with no T-Gel. This meant that my psoriasis sort of came back in a bad way. I bet you didn't think I was going to drop that bomb--I have psoriasis!

It eventually dawned on me that maybe this bleached out beauty just wasn't a good look for me. My hair was such a giant dry and flaky mess--Head and Shoulders couldn't even work me out. Right before my sister graduated from college this past May I decided it just might be a good idea to just buzz all the blond and start over. No products, no special shampoos (save my T-Gel!) this time around. Just regular old sort of that weird gray/brown dude colored hair that only seems to affect men. It's turned out pretty good, my hair.

Sometimes I like to think about my sister and her crazy mixing up things to get your hair, body and mouth right. And then I think about how Gillette just ripped her off with their new thing for guys that does everything but buy you a razor. I guess sometimes we're onto something and we don't even know it when we're kids.

Or you're a grown ass man and you just need to do something about your dandruff!

Jon

8.8.2010

2010-08-08T21:42:00.004-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I've worked in retail sales for what seems like forever. What started out as a summer job during my first year of grad school has quickly become my job forreals. That first summer I made all kinds of no money, but I had some pretty sweet clothes. Then I lost some weight. I'm not sure how much but enough to go down two or three sizes. So then I had all of this shit that didn't fit me or anyone else I knew because no one else was shaped like a baby dumpling.

What I learned that first summer and, let's be honest, the next summer when I moved back to North Carolina and found myself only working a shift here or there, was that I did not need everything. I didn't need fourteen pairs of chinos that only vary by their shade of brown. I did not need more shirts with small to medium sized checks or stripes of blue. And I did not, ever, need anymore straight or bootcut jeans. Those are for people taller than me, and I once tripped on the seam of my bootcut jeans when chasing my dog in the street. That ended with me busted up for a little while because the jeans were too big and had too much fabric going on, causing me to eat the pavement.

Over the past year or so I've become really good at what I do. I don't sell you clothes because, "Oh my god you look so cute right now!" I sell clothes because I like helping people look good. That sounds real cheeseball, I know. But it's true. There are all kinds of people out there who are lost and blind and they need my amazing grace to help them get their clothing game up. And I do it, and they feel good.

Through all of this, as I play therapist and frat brother (i.e., the friend you pay to hang out with...which reminds me--there have been too many times where people just want to be my friend. I am on the job, and you need to buy these pants to help make me feel better about spending the last hour listening to you. This probably contradicts what I just said in the last part, but on the real, there are sometimes people who waste my time by trying on all kinds of stuff, letting me put together outfits for them, and then they decide they just want to hang out when I get off work. And ladies, cause it's only ever ladies, that ain't right! Anyway...), I have found myself sometimes saying whatever is the first thing that pops into my mind that seems to make sense and will hopefully help this person make a decision about buying some clothes.

This summer, I told this girl that she looked so sun-kissed. I have no idea why I chose that particular phrase, but all I could think about was about Jerseylicious-tan she was, and that she needed some good colors to help her tone that down. So I told her she looked sun-kissed. And she was totally into it. I have no idea if she bought anything, but it is one of the times where I remember thinking, "WTF did I just say!?"

So we get to today. I have been a little loopy the past few days. I'm working on the tail end of six or seven days straight. Sometimes toward the end I get a little silly and sometimes a little nonsensical.

I see this tall, Nordic man sitting next to this table about to rip into some Mrs. Fields' cookies. I love, love, love cookies and I've been on the Special-K diet so I was probably also thinking irrationally. I blurt out, in almost full Cookie Monster/Yoda voice, "It's COOKIE TIME!"

I said this to a man I didn't know and had never seen before.

It's cookie time. I said that in a weird character voice to a stranger.

I don't think he or the woman he was with bought anything. And then we kept making eye contact every time I would shuffle out of the fitting room, arms full of recently discarded "no's". That happened two or three times. I eventually just sat in the back and told my managers this insane story as a means of killing time to avoid the Nordic cookie god until he left.

This has to be the number one weirdest thing I have said anyone, even people I know. Oh, that is not really true. The other night I was over a house of some friend's. They just moved in together and they have a couple of awesome roommates. One of these roommates was bringing over this girl who I once met at a birthday party. Of my own. But she didn't remember me.

In trying to deal with that, I got all jumbled in my head. She went to shake my hand and introduce her self and I said, "How." Like the Indian stereotype. I meant to say, "How are you!?" But instead I just made myself look like a racist.

I'm not sure where all of this leaves me. Other than that maybe I need to take a long nap. And maybe also stop talking to strangers or strangers who don't remember me.

Stranger danger!

Jon

7.3.2010

2010-07-03T21:41:00.004-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I'm on a mini-vacay, and it feels so good. I slept in until I realized everyone was awake and decided that it was only right that I also get up so we could all eat some breakfast. I walked out of my room and saw Ben in the living room with what was clearly the face of someone groaning but without any of the noise. Then I looked at the clock. 8:32. AM. I guess I didn't really sleep in all that much. And nobody else seemed to, too.

Last night I watched what was probably the most bizarre movie ever, "Barbarosa". It starred Willie Nelson and Gary Busey. No lie. It was completely out of control. It was a story of mixed-race love that had Willie killing anybody that had any problem with his taking a non-white wife. He would stalk his "wife" around their hacienda and infrequently visit her long enough to make at least one baby. Gary Busey was Willie's sort of sidekick and would be seen riding around him and asking him questions. And at this point Gary Busey was no teenager; he was a grown-ass-man so it was weird to see him being kind of a kid when he is definitely a giant-ass-man. It was interesting to see the dental work that Busey has had done. He no longer has a gap between his front teeth and his eye teeth are no longer the width of toothpicks. But then I think about that mugshot of his from a few years ago and I can't help but wonder if much has really changed for him.

I have no idea exactly how Barbarosa begins because we tuned in during its second hour. I feel like we could put the pieces together from all the little chunks of story we got. It was a weird movie. Tonight we watched the 25th Celebration of Dollywood. Over the last few years a space in my heart has grown larger for Dolly. I didn't think much of her before, other than that she wrote one of my favorite Whitney Houston songs and that she was the subject of the bizarre childhood rhyme, "Chinese, Japanese, milk carton, Dolly Parton". But I would say that I have grown to appreciate her for both her music and her uncanny drag queen-ness.

She was looking particularly draggy tonight. After singing a few of her own solo hits, she brought out Kenny Rogers and Miley and Billy Ray Cyrus. There must be something in the water over there at the Cyrus home that is aging everyone. Miley sounds and looks like the Southern version of a Real Housewife of Long Island. And Billy Ray has decided to be some sort of elder Country statesmen by appropriating a kind of Johnny Cash -ish cadence to his voice. That was weird. He's not old, but he couldn't keep up with Dolls at all. She sang with Porter Wagner, the oldest of old, and he could do it. Keep up, B-Ray. Please.

I took an awesome nap on the couch this afternoon that felt real nice. Whenever I see an overstuffed couch or a really plush spot of carpet, I am overwhelmed with the need/desire to lay on it and take a nap. Writing that out makes me realize that I share another trait with my dog Lyle. I do love dogs.

Well, I have some more Wikipedia-ing to do tonight. I think I'm going to start with getting some more in depth background on Barbarosa and see where that takes me.

Jon

6.23.2010

2010-06-23T15:02:00.003-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I think I've written before about how we've been living in our neighborhood for a minute but I don't really know any of our neighbors' names. I know a few of their dogs' names, but I have almost no clue what the person's name is.

Then last week I was walking our mongrels and ended up talking to one of our lady-lover-neighbors. We knew their names were Dora and Louise, but I couldn't tell you who is whom. We often referred to them each as either the shorter one or the one with the haircut. Either way, I still had no idea what her name was but we went on talking like we always do--only talking about our dogs because that's really all we know about each other.

Things began to take a dark turn when she asked, "So remind me of y'alls names again. I know Lyle and Janet, but I can't remember what your name is for anything!" I was a little caught off guard. MF, we've been living here for almost two years and you don't know my name!? Instead of throwing the first stone, I replied, "I'm Jon, and he's Ben." It was kind of a relief to know that I wasn't the only one to not at all remember her name. We only ever talk about our dogs, so of course I know Hellion's name. But like I said, to me, she was Haircut not Louise. Then it got weird.

"Or you can just call me Barbara." Ok, what? "Many people know me simply as Barbara." But I thought you just made it clear that your name is Louise, and I will already have trouble remembering that. Why would you want to confuse me even more? "I am the biggest Barbara Steisand fan. So people just call me Barbara a lot." Ok, again, what?

I have loved Janet Jackson as far back as I can remember, but I have never asked anyone to call me Janet. Or even Miss Jackson. And I'm gross. But I think Louise just asked me to call her Barbara if I wanted to because she so loves Barbara Streisand. And all of this came out of nowhere. I thought I made it clear that Janet need to take care of her business, because she just made her signal that she needs to get the fuck out of whatever the situation is that she has had enough of.

Louise is for real in the street, almost, yelling all of this as I am trying to get away and think about the fact that she's pouring out her obsession all over the streets. We don't really know each other, much less know each other's real names. But I can call her Barbara. Did I mention that she's not a gay dude? I'd expect this from some old queen. But this woman's been to all of the two live Barbara live performances she's done over the last like twenty years, among the other bizarre facts she just threw out there. Barbouise's love is intense. And we just met like for an official second time. This was too much for me.

We ended up just turning around and walking in the opposite direction, while Bab's continued yapping on about how much she loves...herself? I don't know. It was a complete overshare and made me a little uncomfortable. And she also kept interjecting that she wanted us to join this neighborhood dog circle where a bunch of folks stand around in a circle while their dogs play in the middle. I know how you and Michael Vick roll. So no thank you, Barbouise.

This makes the umpteenth person who decided that I looked like a friendly enough face that it would be appropriate to tell me their weird business. I don't know how I invite it, but it happens way too often. I don't know.

I'm out.

Jon

4.4.2010

2010-04-04T21:30:00.002-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I don't understand people who say they don't watch TV. I think they tend to be the kind of people that boast that they don't have a TV, but totally watch sleazy garbage shows on Youtube or something. I have no problem saying that I love television.

There was a time during undergrad and grad school when I would watch at least three episodes of Friends per day. Then it was Sex and the City. I was obsessed with these shows. I loved American Idol. I loved The Real World until the Las Vegas season, but I would still watch the challenges sometimes. Much of the kind of show I am into is a variation on the reality show theme, and there is generally also some sort of scripted show that I get into.

Right now, I have those shows I watch each season fall to spring: America's Next Top Model, Top Chef, and Project Runway. I also tend to watch a few of the other reality shows Bravo does. Beginning last year, I got really into Glee. I also love Chelsea Lately. So these are the shows I watch on the regular. Then something happened.

Last summer we went to visit our friends Kelley and Jason when they were living in Virginia. We spent much of the morning and early afternoon boozing up on this mountain. When we got home, we realized everyone got a little sunburned so everybody was a little sleepy. Somehow Kelley and Jason inherited or purchased this huge TV. At the time, I think, they didn't have cable so they were watching a lot of things on DVD. I get that--almost my entire grad school career was without cable, thus all the Friends and SATC that I watched. They asked us if we wanted to watch some Planet Earth. Neither of us had seen it, so we were down.

Oh, I just remembered that I think I caught some of it once during Thanksgiving down at my uncle's house--again, we are all kind of exhausted so nobody didn't want to not watch it, nobody cared. Well, in the case of last summer, we got really into it. I mean, the earth is majestic and mysterious. And I am astounded at how they captured all that life and death in the craziest places. It's all quite beautiful, and moving, and amazing when you watch it on a giant TV.

I think we've debated about buying Planet Earth every time we see it at Target. But I don't know if I'd ever want to watch it if I didn't just catch it on a one-off kind of thing. The same goes for the shows that come on NatGeo that catch me, that blindside me into watching them for an hour or two. I just watched this show all about the moon and was enraptured. I'm not someone who's into science, but geez, these shows get me! This is what is happening--I am getting into watching these science-y shows. Who am I?

Something like this happened last Sunday night. We were just flipping around, trying to find something to watch that was not an ABC drama or something that involved law, order, or the letters N, C, S or I. We came across Life, the new Planet Earth. It was the mammal episode, so it involved all kinds of cute animals and their babies. I got so into it at one point that when watching a mother polar bear and her kids scavenging for food and Oprah, whose voice I am convinced is the same one of the Lord, started talking about their likelihood for survival and whether or not they would make it, I got really torn up.

I just couldn't imagine these creatures just dying because some bastard male polar bear wouldn't let this little single mom family get in on some beached whale. It's hard to watch sometimes! So emotional! But I was just sitting in the living room, watching the latest episode of the Real Housewives of New York and looking for something else to watch, when I saw that Life was on again tonight. Clearly, we know what I am doing the rest of the night.

If you're not watching TV, you are missing out. Not just on the insanity and beauty that is Life, but also on things like RuPaul's Drag Race and the Barefoot Contessa. I'm not saying that you should go and get a TV, but I am saying that if you don't watch TV you can always just ask me to tell you about it.

I got you, child.

Jon

2.15.2010

2010-02-15T20:43:00.005-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

As much as I love to hate on Sandra Dee, she of Semi-Homemade Cooking on the Food Network, for her freaking looks, her weird way of talking, and the fact that she doesn't actually cook much of the things on her show, I have to say that I totally pulled a Sandra Dee this afternoon. For Christmas, I got this awesome ice cream maker. I wanted one for a while, but never had the get-up-and-go to actually purchase one. Then my parents started bugging me about what I wanted for Christmas.

I think you reach a certain age and there just aren't things you want anymore for Christmas. And if you want them, they are not always things you can ask your parents to take care of. I wanted to tell them they could just pay part of my bills one month and I would be happy. My dad is the kind of parent that thinks Christmas and birthdays are for just getting things you would never, ever get, that you can get a little extravagant with these gifts. But he didn't want to pay my bills. My mom is of the kind that either you get something, and if you want nothing, you get nothing. But she felt a little bad, I think, about not getting something so then she asked me what I wanted. And I told them I wanted an ice cream maker.

The love I have for chips of almost any variety is almost unparalleled. Except by ice cream. Both of these loves, I am convinced, are inherited from each of my parents. They both love chips and ice cream in major ways. I sometimes wondered where my desire and love for these things came from, and it wasn't until this very moment when I realized that it is totally from my parents. We had an ice cream maker when we were kids. I don't remember how often we used it, but we pulled that thing, literally, out of the attic every now and then.

Folks in my family loved some homemade peach ice cream. My grandpa, RIP Papa, would make this in the summer time for them with his ice cream maker. I hated that stuff. I thought it was disgusting. The kind of ice cream I liked came in a box from the store. This may be why my parents never made homemade much for us. I could be a bit of a little diva some times. But we had homemade ice cream every now and then, and even if the taste never made a memory for me beyond nasty, I feel like there are very distinct sense memories around the making of ice cream.

All of this is to say, I wanted an ice cream maker. I didn't know which kind, or what price, or even what color. This made purchasing one hard to do because I just said, "I want an ice cream maker." My dad got me a blu-ray player. And my mom got me a John Grisham book. I guess I wasn't very clear because they both complained of not knowing what kind I wanted or where to even find one. My mom said she found some that were $40 and others that were $700. I guess when the range is that varied, some direction may help. Being more clear is something I am working on. The folks also gave me some cash, so I used that to buy the ice cream maker.

In what I feel like is a stroke of culinary luck, I found the same ice cream maker as one of my sheroes, Ina Garten. If it's good enough for the Barefoot Contessa, clearly, it is good enough for me. Except that mine is red, and her's is white. The first batch of ice cream I made was some cake batter. It's one of Ben's favorites and the recipe was pretty easy. We've gone through two or three iterations of this recipe, each one getting a little bit closer to what they dip out at the Coldstone. Once, I made it almost entirely with half-and-half. If you know anything about cooking, of which I know only a little, you can't really substitute half-and-half for milk. But that's what I did. It turned out okay. I think our bodies are still recovering from it, though.

The flavor I was most excited about was recreating the salted caramel from Bi-Rite Creamery in San Francisco. It tastes exactly like it sounds, and it will blow your mind. I found a recipe online. I would post it here, but I think it kind of sucks even though I keep trying to make it work. The first time we made it, Ben helped me. Whenever I set out to cook something, I follow the recipe. Almost to a fault because I do every step as it says, and all at the same time. For this one, you first have to make the caramel sauce. Then it says to get the milk and cream boiling. It doesn't say that you should pay attention to the caramel sauce in case it burns or doesn't even melt. Recipes don't tell you the things you need to do, like "Make the sauce first. Once it is done, move on to step two." They make it seem so easy, like you can just do it all at once and it all gets done easily and beautifully. It's not like that at all. Well, with Ben's help we got the first batch of the salted caramel together in a tasty way. It was so good.

The past two times, on my own, I have tried to do it and it just didn't seem to work. And all of it is to blame on the caramel sauce. I sort of know what I am doing when I set out to make ice cream at this point, but I am definitely only making the sauce and nothing else when I start. Each of this two times the sauce burns and tastes disgusting. The first time this happened I made it all the way to the end step, where you are dipping out the ice cream to eat when you watch "Chelsea Lately". Well, since the caramel was burned, it didn't really work. I convinced myself that it wasn't the caramel sauce that tasted metallic, it was just the pan it came from. And then that it was just the spoon I was using to taste the sauce. The consistency of this sauce compared to the first was nothing alike. It was liquid-y, and full of these little weird floaty things. I don't know, but it was nasty. Ben's face when he tried the second round was a little priceless.

I decided over the weekend that I was done fooling around. I went to the grocery store and just bought a jar of caramel sauce. A jar of it. This is the very kind of thing that Sandra Dee does. I feel so dirty, like I work for a company that supply school cafeterias with those weird pizzas that have those little nuggets of what could be sausage or maybe pepperonis. As if I was fooling the world into thinking that this ice cream was all of my own doing. I don't like Sandra Dee because I feel like she is a bit of a farce, trying to pull fast-ones on her guests. That is Rotell, lady! You didn't chop those peppers and tomatoes!

But then I kind of got over it when I put everything together and it was so much easier than making your own sauce. It remains to be seen if the ice cream will be good, but the mixture I tasted over the last few hours does not taste like spoon! I guess it's not so bad to sometimes buy things. Whatever. I am not Sandra Dee.

Jon

1.15.2010

2010-01-15T10:34:00.003-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Quick note. This new year sees me going more blonde next week, trying hard to give up soda last week, and getting back into the groove at work this week after a much needed staycation. All of these (and by all I probably mean just me and being blonde and me living a healthier life) probably deserve some attention as individuals, but I am on a time crunch and so tired of being late.

I went to the eye doctor last week and they gave me two things: one, the most amazing pair of new glasses; and two, the most awful pair of contacts. I made an appointment to get checked out again earlier this week after suffering for four days with what felt like a giant hair in my eye. Rather, all that could be found was an ill-fitting, probably over-priced contact lens that I think the doctor must get a cut of every time she sells them.

After waiting for 30 minutes, I even got there 15 minutes early, I went to the desk and asked if I could just get a refund for the four boxes of bad contacts and a copy of my prescription. I was determined to head to LensCrafters and get my old brand back, insurance or not. This little move put all kinds of action in motion. They immediately gave me a refund, and then my fave Pam took me back to talk about what's been going on. I walked out with an order for my old contacts, which as it turned out were not actually monthlies but rather every-two-weekers (damn you LensCrafters!), and insurance covering most of it so I only had a little bit left to pay.

I wasn't a jerk, or even slightly mean. I just got junk to do, lady, and this not even real appointment is standing in the way of me and my day! But it's all taken care of. Chew. On. That.

That's where my life stands in 2010. I continue to write 2009 and December every time I write out a date. I call it vintage.

Jon

1.3.2010

2010-01-03T10:41:00.002-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

With all this new year business, lately I have been thinking about things that went down in the past decade. There are all kinds of things that trigger memories of the past. Sometimes we have very specific sense memories that do not quite live up to how our brains originally processed them.

When I first started working for this company, I fell in love with this tuxedo shirt. I thought it was awesome, and that if I were to wear it that it would be my glass slipper. It was always a little out of my price range so I never bought it. And then it made another appearance this fall. I debated and debated. "Do I really need this? Where will I wear it? How will I wear it?" I mean, it's a tuxedo shirt, and I don't exactly go anywhere where a tux is required. But the memory I had of it, that of it being awesome and that it would make me awesome, was enough to make me buy it.

I brought the shirt home and, man, was I excited. Ben was not so much. "So where are you going to wear this?" "Uh. I don't know, I thought you could wear it to that wedding you have to go to." "But I don't think it's black tie, and that tux shirt doesn't really look good with a regular suit." What he said was true. And then I felt the pang of regret, feeling like I had given into the horrible monster that pops up when you buy weird things that don't necessarily make sense but you still want them so you buy them. I had no idea why I wanted this shirt, other than that I had wanted it real bad a few years ago. Now that I got it, what am I going to do about it? I returned it.

It turns out that this same shirt would later be sold to me at a much deeper discounted rate because it had coffee stains across the back. I could swing buying it that way, and even if I only wore it once I could justify it. But this all makes me think about how we remember things.

Last night we went to a birthday party for one of my bosses. It was at this club downtown. I hadn't been to this place since I was an undergrad, and even then I only went twice. My boss said it was under new management, so it was totally different and would be a great time. So we went. I had mentioned before to Ben that the club's signature drink was delicious. We love a good cocktail, and I was convinced that this one would please. I need to make it known that the last time I had one of these was after drinking a rum and coke and then a Long Island Iced Tea, so I'm not sure exactly what I remember tasting other than that it reminded me of fruit punch and that it was good.

I may or may not have been hyping this drink since we moved back to our town. I really remember thinking this drink was out of this world, and may be worth the trip to this club. And since we had to go there for this party, the opportunity to finally taste this thing again left me feeling excited.

We get there, say hello, and then move to the bar. I didn't think the drink would be in a 24 ounce cup because I saw that my friend's drink was in a much smaller and manageable size. I only wanted to stay for a little while, so this size seemed like it made sense. But the bartender grabbed the huge cups and proceeded to get busy. I don't know what goes into these things, but I think it involves five or six different liquors and Miller High Life. I will drink a High Life on its own, so I am not judging. I don't know where the fruit punch flavor comes from because instead of watching the bartender making the drink, I was making sure Ben was ready for the ride of his life.

Like the tux shirt, this drink didn't exactly live up to how I remembered it. It was incredibly sweet, and I swore off Smirnoff Ice years ago. The fruit punch flavor was definitely there, but none of it was in the same way that I remembered it from college. It wasn't wholly bad, but it was not particularly good. And it took a little while to drink because the cup was so huge. And we each got one! It was funny to be drinking it, and having those weird memories of being in this place and the bizarre couple of times I had had when I was there. And then we laughed because, clearly, how I remembered it and how we were experiencing it then were two very different things.

All of this is to say that tux shirts and funky cocktails may not be what they once were. It was fun to enjoy them then, and probably even more hilarious to "enjoy" them now. I feel like I'm being all nostalgic, like there is some sort of message or fable-style takeaway from all of this. If there was, it may just be that the past is awesome and sometimes we can take those memories we, for some reason or another, place way high up down a few notches. Sometimes the gag reflex you experience when drinking that drink from undergrad is enough to make you appreciate what you've got right now. And it is also enough to make you just order a water.

Jon

12.17.2009

2009-12-17T12:13:00.002-05:00

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

2009-12-01T12:46:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-24T12:57:00.002-05:00

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

2009-11-05T08:47:00.002-05:00

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

2009-09-28T20:21:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-23T13:54:00.003-04:00

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

2009-09-14T20:09:00.000-04:00

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

2009-08-29T12:21:00.003-04:00

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

2009-08-25T21:04:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-20T21:48:00.005-04:00

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

2009-08-11T20:10:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-06T18:16:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-29T19:58:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-20T18:10:00.003-04:00

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

2009-07-15T13:33:00.004-04:00

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

2009-07-06T11:31:00.002-04:00

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

2009-06-21T22:05:00.003-04:00

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

2009-06-14T11:20:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-27T19:55:00.005-04:00

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

2009-05-22T14:33:00.003-04:00

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

2009-05-06T13:14:00.004-04:00

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

2009-04-24T21:42:00.002-04:00

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

2009-04-16T10:42:00.005-04:00

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

2009-04-12T13:04:00.002-04:00

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

2009-04-05T21:19:00.003-04:00

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

4.1.09

2009-04-01T15:00:00.003-04:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Maybe it's just me, but the 80's are coming back to me now in all kinds of ways. I don't know how much you follow fashion, but 80's themes are everywhere now and will continue to be through this fall and winter. Blah blah. The 80's are rocking hard for me right now in the way of Gloria Estefan. More specifically, I cannot stop listening to "Bad Boys" the jam she did with the Miami Sound Machine. I have both the regular version and the 12" dance version. They are equally getting major play in my headphones and in my car. Maybe it's the memories I have of this song that are associated with "Three Men and a Baby" that make me enjoy this song. I loved that movie. There was always something attractive about Steve Guttenburg. I don't know. That makes me feel gross.

But this song, ohmygod. I'm deejaying my friends' wedding this summer, and I want to play this six minute version so bad. I don't know if they'll be into it. Every time it comes on I tell Ben, "I am playing this at the wedding!" He has complete veto power, though. If not, I would offend everyone with songs like Freak Nasty's "Da Dip" or anything by Master P. I just want the bodies bumping and sweating. But in reality, that is not really what the reception is about, you know? So that's kind of why "Bad Boys" the most awesome song. It's catchy, it's dancy, and the hook, "Boys will be boys, bad boys, bad boys" is so good! I want to mix it into Mases "Feels So Good" the song that sampled Gloria's. I don't think Ben will like that idea.

Between this obsession with Gloria Estefan and my recent forays into bedazzling, I am sure the mid to late 1980s and the early 1990s are back in a big way for me right now. Folks like to hate, but I am okay with all of this. I. Love. Gloria. Estefan. Hard. Core. She knows the way to mi corazon. Adios por ahora.

Jon

3.29.09

2009-03-29T22:37:00.002-04:00

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 Hal l 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

2009-03-26T20:15:00.002-04:00

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

2009-03-22T09:49:00.006-04:00

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

2009-03-16T21:51:00.004-04:00

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

2009-03-13T20:31:00.003-04:00

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

2009-03-07T20:37:00.001-05:00

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

2009-03-07T08:50:00.000-05:00

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

2009-03-01T10:05:00.003-05:00

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

2.25.09

2009-02-25T08:59:00.003-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Man, on Friday Ben and I were discussing crazy things we did as kids. He bred and raised dogs. Instead of doing that or perhaps something like collecting legos or special collector editions of musical soundtracks, I would eat for time. I know this doesn't make a lot of sense right now, so I should probably explain.

When my sister and I were kids, we were probably too young to spend time at home by ourselves. Our parents were divorced and worked, so the summer time found us with a lot of time just the two of us. I think I may have been eleven or twelve and my sister was three years younger. At the time it didn't seem like such a bad idea to leave us at home alone during the day because we were good kids. I guess my parents never minded too much the frantic calls we would make when one of us would draw a knife on the other as we were unloading the dishwasher or the times we would be using these walking sticks as microphones and then it would quickly turn violent and the sticks became swords and we would square off around the kitchen table. We would get so angry, and then one of us would get so scared that we would have to get our parents involved. We'd call them, probably crying, and explain the situation. More often than not, we would be ordered to separate and go to our individual rooms where we would cool out.

Those times of such heated anger would soon vanish from our minds because that heat would transform into hunger for both of us. Eventually, we would use the air vents in our bedrooms to communicate plans of reconciliation and celebration. We'd leave our rooms and meet in the kitchen. And here is where eating for time would come in. I am not sure what my sister would do because I always did this quietly because I knew it was kind of insane. During the summer, my parents would get us the food we always liked but couldn't bring for lunch at school. I cannot remember how many cans of Chef Boyardee pasta with meatballs I would individually consume. We would each eat an entire can, alone, for lunch. We were never really fat kids, but one summer my mom did mention that we should maybe think about cutting back after we went swimming one afternoon. I guess she saw the splash we made when we jumped in and how long it took for us to come back up. I'm just saying that sometimes even now I feel like I might be willing to give up being fit for my love of delicious and disgusting foods. And then I see Carnie Wilson or think about Luther Vandross (R.I.P.) and am reminded of the secret violence food does to us. Ok, really I just cannot afford gastic bypass and I also cannot imagine my stomach being the size of a walnut. Baby, I love to eat! But it needs to be in moderation because I finally look good!

After we would make up, and generally after we had eaten our can of the Chef and had at least two cans of Coke, we would pop open another can and perhaps also a container of sugar cookies. You probably know the kind. They're from your grocery store bakery, just plain old sugar cookies which should not be confused with the ones covered in icing and stay soft for ridiculous amounts of time. I found these cookies as an adult and have stories regarding them that are best left to their own letters. Well, I would guess I would start out with one cookie. I'd take the cookie and the Coke and plop down in the living room, ready to watch Ricki Lake before we'd switch it to Oprah. Soon that first cookie would become a second, sometimes a third. But many times it would become, "I am going to just eat cookies for the next ten minutes." I wouldn't limit myself to a number of cookies, instead I would limit myself to a set amount of time in which I would eat whatever I could until that time was up. Many other times I would extend it by two or three minutes, depending on what I was eating. Most notably, the extension added to timed eating would occur when I was really enjoying something that I couldn't really see the damage I was doing. I couldn’t see the damage until I had eaten an entire package of something, but this rarely happened. Only fat people eat entire packs of things. This included Doritos and Oreos. Ok, I lie. I am pretty sure I have eaten at least one package of those cookies-that-stay-soft in its entirety as an adult. I’m an emotional eater, be it happiness, or a little sad, or mostly just so fucking bored.

Apparently no one else in the world understands how fun or not eating for time can be. I mean, if you enjoy it don't limit how much you eat, just how long. The weird thing is that when I lived alone, I would often find myself sitting on the couch, bag of double-flavored Doritos in hand, and giving myself five more minutes of eating. Those MFs are just too good to only eat a handful. I know you will understand this. I had to get this to you before I forgot again. You will find attached a picture of the reminder I wrote so as to not forget. I hope you are well!

Jon

2.17.09

2009-02-17T22:52:00.004-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

OMG please don't be mad at me. I started my new job today and I've been really busy.

Okay, for real, I wrote a letter on Sunday. It had an accompanying picture that is necessary for you to understand the letter. I can't figure out how to get the picture uploaded because I am a PC.

I don't want you to think I forgot about you. Perhaps we should get together to listen to that Anoop guy who's on American Idol. Do we think he'll be asked to sing at the Oscars this weekend?

We'll talk soon.

Jon

2.14.09

2009-02-14T16:32:00.006-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Today is Valentine's Day. Up to this point, I've always been one of those people who found Valentine's Day to be just kind of okay. I never called it VD or Single's Awareness Day. It seems like those people who do that are more likely to spend today pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw, wearing leggings, and probably eating at The Melting Pot with their other single girlfriends. I bet as soon as they might get into a relationship Valentine's Day becomes all lovey-dovey, pink, and purple.

We had great things planned out for today. First we were going to get another beagle. Our current beagle is incredible, which means he also has spoiled us with his beauty and charm. Beagles that need to be adopted all have one thing in common: they're all a little busted. Don't get me wrong, they are some really cute ones. There may have only been one really cute one, her name was Miss Punkin and she is now adopted. The rest don't look nearly as ugly in person as they do online. Some dogs just don't photograph well. I wish someone would tell that to Fantasia Barrino. We were kind of into this one, Rudy. He was a little too sad though. And he came from a breeder. Life is not so hard Rudy, quit playing. The search continues in the hopes of finding our next beagle. She is out there.

There was also an attempt made to get iphones. Maybe you might know about this one, being a celebrity who's on top of all things. Did you know that if you don't have credit, because you just don't have credit, they charge you like $500 to hold as a deposit? I bet when you got your iphone they just handed it to you. I hope NBC covers the cost of that for you, those jerks. If they did, that means they probably have credit. They probably drink iphones over there. I ended up signing up for a credit card this afternoon in the hopes of building some credit. That whole thing is very silly to me. I just want to be like the cool kids! Geez.

What are you up to today? It seems Minsky's has you very busy lately. My google alerts have something almost daily about it. I imagine you are taking it easy, chilling all day. I will tell you to not order the heart-shaped pizza from Papa John's. It's a scam to also get you to order their chocolate covered pizza crusts. And the pizza is thin crust, which just is not what Papa John's is about. We ended up just getting a regular pizza. That mess was delicious. Are you going to watch Saturday Night Live tonight? I bet it's awful, per usual. Since you've been gone, it is a straight-up stink show. No thank you. I think I have some old weird black and white movies about water fronts and noon-time shootouts in my future. Give me a shout!

Jon

2.12.09

2009-02-12T08:10:00.005-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Right now, at this very moment, I am sitting in my writing class. I'm in it to try and find my voice. My voice. I don't even know what that means. I feel like my voice is the one you might find in the bargain bin, that was reviewed as being too much like this author or too much of that one. I feel like most of what I do is rip off the style of other folks, David Sedaris-lite. Perhaps fat free, even. It's like the world might think it's worth something, but only at a discount price. They'll tell me it's because of These Economic Times.

So this class is all about prompts. It's a bit like the improv you do--they give you an object, a phrase and then you go with it. This week's prompt is a video camera. As I began to write, all I could think about was Paris Hilton and her video camera. Nightvision is so gross. When I walked in, I thought that maybe our class was being taped. In grad school, professors and grad students were encouraged to have their lectures taped so they could watch them and critique. I don't think my teacher has to answer to a tenure committee, so I am pretty sure class is not being taped. But it totally reminded me of the first time I lectured.

Geez. I was so nervous standing there in front of all those kids. I call them kids, but most were my age. Some might have even been a little older. They all made me nervous. I don't know how you did it for so long on Saturday Night Live. Maybe there's a focus that comes from all the rehearsals and knowing that you're funny. I practiced my lecture in my living room, in front of only me. I was over in about ten minutes. I had TV to watch. I think the last time I had given a presentation was as an undergraduate. Something about Charlize Theron, and that film she was in, "Monster". I'm so glad you turned down that role that Christina Ricci took. Charlize looked so gross. I think she could have been a serial killer just from touching you with that face! Or maybe her strength came from all that grease in her hair. I don't know what kind of dude would pick up ole Aileen Wournos, but I guess they weren't into showers. Of any kind.

That presentation was kind of bad. The professor hated me because I sent her an email demanding to know where all the black actresses were when our class was about women and film, not White Ladies in the Movies. She took out Legally Blonde and put in Jungle Fever. Cop. Out. I swear Angela Bassett would have gathered up all the prof's clothes, put them in her car and lit them all on fire when she heard the travesty that was this class. I did suggest "Waiting to Exhale". Maybe the professor wasn't a fan of Whitney Houston. Or maybe she thought it was a pot movie. Whatever, she hated me.

Come to think of it, the plot of "Waiting to Exhale" is similar to your new movie in a lot of ways. They're both about a group of sassy women, done wrong by men. Ok, that may be the only similarity. I do think Tyler Perry will have seen both by the time you get this, though. You know how he is about sassy ladies. Oh, Tyler Perry. Have you considered working with him? He may do you like he did Kathy Bates, which means it's all straight-to-DVD. Geez, I hope you're never so hard up as to do a Tyler Perry movie. Hello, I'm talking to you Janet Jackson. I guess you gotta do what you gotta do after that mess with 30 Rock. Whatever. Broadway is your's! Please write back.

Jon

2.10.09

2009-02-10T08:45:00.006-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I’ve been doing some reading about this Minsky’s. First, I love that your character's name is Beula. I had an aunt by that same name. Second, I am wondering why Dita Von Teese is not involved. I mean, hello, she is the only existing burlesque entertainer worth her weight in tassels. Her business also has to be drying up; she probably needs some money. Let’s face it, between burlesque shows and tanning salons, there are some things we can just do without during These Economic Times. Why is she even famous, beyond having been married to Marilyn Manson? She’s Casper incarnate and she lives to shimmy in champagne. For most people, that would qualify as insane. Now after having written all that out, Dita might not understand the satirical value of Minsky’s and it is probably best she not be a part of it. She’s so serious.

Over the past two weeks or so, I have become obsessed with reading my horoscope every day. Sometimes it’s spot on, other times not so much. Today it tells me I may find spiritual centeredness in the tiny details. Okay. What does that even mean? Do you read your horoscope? I feel like you might, but to make fun of it. They don't mean a whole lot most of the time. I guess if you do what they say it's a bit like letting your life be ruled by fortune cookies or LaToya Jackson. Remember her psychic hotline? I always wanted to call, but only to talk to her. She's so crazy.

I should get going. I have to recreate a spreadsheet that was hand-drawn by some cave dwellers. Somehow they couldn't manage fire, but they figured out how to divide up pre and post doctoral students and give them account numbers for all their research money. Just a few more days of this! I'll let you know how it goes. Gimme a shout some time.

Jon

2.6.09

2009-02-06T08:21:00.000-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I am currently hiding underneath my desk. The copyman was fired yesterday. And he’s got a pistol. He’s been following people around campus for a few days before getting fired, sitting in his van. I have always been fearful of people sitting in their cars. I mean, why not go in to wherever you are, why sit in the parking lot? It’s one thing if maybe you’re finishing up a phone call or a sandwich, I can see you wanting to sit in your car and do those things before heading into Best Buy. But to just sit there, like staring, being creepy—no, thank you. If you’re going to stab me, get out of your car and just do it! You sitting there freaks me out! Waiting, watching. This man has just been sitting in his car and, so it seems, copiers across the land are going unserviced.

The office I’m hiding in is full of ladies, and me. We had an impromptu staff meeting in the copy room. I felt like “Mad Men” and Joan Holloway was delivering some kind of salacious, or in this case dangerous, news. I also felt a bit like Klymaxx, with copy room substituted for the ladies. I covered my mouth when she said he had a gun. MF, I’m getting out of here next week, moving on to a new job. Please don’t let me die today. Not like this! I’d always been friendly to this dude. I didn’t call his bosses complaining about his lecherous tendencies. Or that he brought his lunch with him one day and sat down to eat it in our kitchen. I don’t think we even called to have our copier worked on. I mean, yeah, the office is a warm spot I guess. He’s a mess.

Everyone got worked up into a tizzy. I just don’t want to die. Someone suggested we get guns. I suggested we all get tazers. I feel like you might know where I could get them, you or my best sister friends. I don’t want anyone to die, I just want them fucked up a little. I’m in no tizzy, but I am under my desk. They’ve decided to have everyone enter through the one door right in front of my desk. I suppose this is because I am the lone dude, or because I work at the reception desk and it just kind of lacks walls and its own door. This means I am the first line of defense if the Copyman comes here. It also means I’ll be the first victim. If he doesn’t see me, I must not be around. Thus, I am under the desk.

On an unrelated note, have you heard about Robin Quivers and her miraculous weight loss? I had no idea she was so large. Large enough to lose 90 pounds. She’s like a secret Carnie Wilson or something. But the weird part is that younger dudes are asking her out. Isn’t she a lesbian? According to Wikipedia, she had been with Mr. X for a while. Mister. Hmm. Well, young dudes are hollering now. I’m not sure how to respond. Gross?

If you don’t hear from me ever again, I guess it’s because the Copy Man got me. Or maybe I’m out with Robin Quivers. Hope the show is going well out there. We need more details!

Jon

2.5.09

2009-02-05T09:25:00.001-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Did you SEE Top Chef last night? Just when I thought I couldn’t love Carla any more, she came at me with her 1000 horsepower love machine. Man alive, if there is justice in this universe, she will win Top Chef. In related news, I’m thinking of organizing some sort of “Stay Home from Work and Text All Day for Carla to be the Fan Favorite” event. Could you lend a little pro bono PR to this cause?

So, I know this is my first solo post, but I want to cut to the chase. I know you were bummed about that dumb Vanity Fair spread last year. But you know what? Your omission from their “women of comedy” coverage incensed me so much that I not only actively decided to never read Vanity Fair again, but also decided to scowl at people at newsstands, bookstores, airports, etc. when I see them reading or even thinking of reading Vanity Fair. No joke. I’ve only been confronted by security a handful of times, which is really not much of an inconvenience on my part. And don’t worry, my efforts coupled with the impending collapse of the magazine industry will give those dweebs at VF their just desserts.

But let’s clear the air of all this negativity. I was just pondering who I would include in my list of ultimate comediennes. Do you still like to be called “comediennes?” I never know what you people are calling yourselves these days. I guess “comedienne” is kind of limiting. “Funny Ladies.” That sounds like a euphemism for a gang of meth head hookers or something. Um… “First Women of Comedy?” No, I feel like Tyler Perry would be on that list. Maybe “Funny Gurrrls?” No, that’s a roller derby team sponsored by NOW, I think. Okay, women who make me chortle. That’s what I’m calling my list. Here it is, in no particular order:

1.) Margaret Cho
2.) Dolly Parton
3.) Carol Burnett
4.) Rachel Dratch
5.) Sarah Silverman
6.) Tina Fey
7.) Lily Tomlin
8.) Gilda Radner
9.) Kathy Griffin
10.) Amy Sedaris

Okay, that’s just the first ten to come to mind. I guaran-damn-tee you, there’s more funny on that list than Vanity Fair could handle.

Alright, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, let’s get down to business. As I’m commuting each day, I’m going to devote a little bit of time thinking of ways to get you back in the saddle. Here are some ideas I’m coming up with as I write:

1.) Times are hard, right? That’s what they tell me on cable news, at least. When times are hard, people want to escape OR they want to see someone stickin’ it to the people who made times hard. Enter the feature length comedy: RePossessed. A woman (one Rachel Dratch) has her home and car repossessed by wicked mortgage lenders and is forced to bike to work from the shelter or something. Of course that ends in a deadly bike accident and she comes back as a ghost to haunt the mortgage lenders. There’s some sort of love thing involved, I’m sure. And maybe Amy Poehler could be a medium that you possess and she helps you tie up your loose ends or whatever. You know what, maybe this material is more appropriate as a light-hearted episode of The Ghost Whisperer. Think about it.
2.) Have you considered hosting some show on cable? Mario Lopez can’t do it all.
3.) A Nazi movie. They’re really in right now.
4.) What about a stunt? I mean, you can drop a few f-bombs on some production staff and people will make dance remixes on YouTube within the hour. Throw a fit… or your cellphone. It might also be a blast.

That’s all I’ve got right now. I feel like we’re really getting somewhere, though. Stay sassy and keep it real.

Ben

2.4.09

2009-02-04T08:28:00.006-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

Girl, why didn't you say anything about this movie you've got coming out!? The combo of you and Miss Poehler is a bit deadly. Like that peanut butter! Speaking of which, hope you haven't been affected. I feel like you might really enjoy some peanut butter, as I obviously do. Your pics from Sundance look super spicy. I like it. The fact that all of this is happening also makes me very happy.

Have you been watching American Idol? I refuse to watch those dumb audition episodes. Sweet jesus. But I did see/read about that girl who auditioned in just a bikini. Maybe I'm drinking the Haterade, but she's not very cute. I like to think the bottom was squeezing her junk and ruining her voice. Maybe it was all that tucking. I look forward to discussing the less skin-inclined and more singing-inclined singers at a later date.

Man, this time last week I was laid up and out of commission. I ate some old bean dip. I knew it tasted funny, but I was hungry and kind of into it. Nothing told me not to eat it, so there it went. The consequences were dire. I won't let that ruin a Chipotle burrito, though. That guacamole is crucially important to my operations. I'm just glad to be alive. Promise me you won't fall victim to bad bean dip.

I don't know if you're married or not, but I have a get back into the limelight quick scheme. Have you considered dating Shia LeLaBeouf? I know, I know. This is insane. But then you could turn the experience into a one-woman show. "I Am A Transformer". Forget all of that. I don't know how you feel about end of times prophecies, but I think you need to star in something with Kirk Cameron. Say, one of those "Left Behind" films. You could be his wife after his other one is raptured. Imagine the wacky senarios. I don't know how light he'd like to make it, but something about this says Oscar to me. Ok, better yet. "Mad Men" Season Three. That is all there is to say. This is all just in case your other show doesn't take off. Which it totally will. I know it.

Jon

2.2.09

2009-02-02T08:30:00.000-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

I watched some of the Super Bowl last night. I don't understand people who get so caught up in the having a party for some game in which they don't care about either team, but have a party to justify eating mini-weiners and spicy meatballs. Or in my case, mesquite barbeque chips and cheetos. Sometimes, I like to get all Britney on some food, I won't lie. You would have enjoyed the football field made of dips though.

I feel like you might also hate that Natasha Bedingfield song that is also the theme from "The Hills". It came on today when I was going to work. I hate it. Sometimes I think Natasha Bedingfield and KT Tunstall are the same person. But then I remember KT has that song from "The Devil Wears Prada" and Natasha as that lady from "The Hills". I love some "Suddenly I See". Jesus. Sometimes, when I have a bad day, I put that song on and just walk around smiling. That song has power. Why wasn't KT Tunstall invited to do the Superbowl halftime show? It's probably because we have no idea where she is now. Isn't she Scottish or something?

It's going to be a long day, I feel like. I decided this morning that I'm going out for lunch. Sometimes peanut butter just doesn't cut it. Or you have that poison butter and you've spent several days regretting all those spoonfuls of peanut butter and Hershey's syrup you ate last week. Not that that happened.

Jon

1.31.09

2009-01-31T20:10:00.000-05:00

Dear Rachel Dratch,

We were riding back from running some errands today and your name came up. We were wondering why you hadn't been in 30 Rock for a while. Your impersonation of that Mexican housekeeper during the episode where Tracy borrows that yacht still makes us laugh. So does thinking about that other episode where you were that blue monster. And the episode where you were Elizabeth Taylor, "These have always brought me luck."

Needless to say, we miss you. And until we hear more about you or where you are or what you are doing, we will write you letters (almost) daily. Get ready. Please come back.

Love,
Ben & Jon