Jenna's House of Idiosyncrasies Version 10.0 [Focus.]

Abie's hilarious explanation of concert goer types. Nearly 5 years old, but still entirely true.

sweaty shirtless moshers

these are the guys that make me smell like sweaty boy when i get home afterwards. they usually start off with a shirt, but then it disintegrates. so they're left shirtless. now no guy without major muscles can be in this category. thats just the way it is. these guys are all about moshing. they like to slime as many people they can with sweat. dammit, they are amusing and great. but don't push them (punch them instead), cuz since they're so sweaty, all that you will have accomplished is getting icky sweat all over yourself.

rabbit guys

let me explain this. rabbit guys. i've heard that how you dance is how you fuck. so these guys are screwed..but not literally. they are the ones with ABSOLUTELY no rhythm, and hop about in an insanely annoying sense.

boys who are afraid to mosh

bitches.

I was nearly knocked unconscious once by a rabbit guy's overly enthusiastic unpredictable head banging. I had to leave the crowd and go sit down. True story.

There is a discussion on the much lauded opium² about the best songs to do the deed to. I was asked to weigh in by the Roommates™ (I have this undeserved rep as a mixtape aficionado) and offered this:

What you need to understand is, the key to a good sex mix is the fact that the seduction music is part of it. You can't stop someone in the middle of, um, whatever they are doing so you can run over to your CD player and pop in your “Music for Humpin” mix. You have to start it up when you get them back to your humble abode, and act like you're not trying to imply anything with your HOTT background music.

It also shouldn't just stop abruptly at the end of the act. Think about a story arch. A climax is simply the major turning point, not the end.

So, presented with notation, a chronological sex mix:

Arrival. "Come on in, sorry about the mess."

1. Strong As Death (Sweet As Love) // Al Green
2. Lover, You Should've Come Over // Jeff Buckley

Smooching begins.

3. Love Letters // Jude
4. I've Been Loving You Too Long (To Stop Now) // Otis Redding

Clothes start coming off. Nakedness and related activity is in full swing by track 7.

5. I Want You // Elvis Costello
6. Sugar Pill // Ambulance Ltd
7. I Remember // Damien Rice

Climax.

8. We Looked Like Giants // Death Cab For Cutie

Hopefully at this point you have wooed the honey to the point where they want to have breakfast with you in the morning. There is none of that "I have to get up really early" stuff. And you fall asleep.

9. Falling Away With You // Muse
10. Drown In My Own Tears // Will Hoge

This puts the whole act, from start to finish, at about 45 minutes. While that might be a lot to expect from men at my age, it's certainly not impossible. A girl can dream.

It should be noted that my obsession is not sex, it's mixtapes—pacing, timing, and flow. It has many of the same concerns as sex I suppose.

my “only slightly shorter but it feels a lot shorter to me” hair, my now very tangible prospects for the future, the fact that my car seems to be running fine (for now), the fabulous open mic I attended at the Red Light, knowing that even though I'm terrible at calling people HGB will call me just to check up, laughing fits that ultimately give me hiccups, being aware that even adorable British men are still no match for my special super power, a charming musician who insists on taking my picture even though it horrifies me, new music from said musician, having concrete goals thanks to Abie

On Friday my Dad invited me to dinner in Winder in honor of my grandfather's birthday. I walked to my downtown parking spot straight from work and hit The Loop™ on my way to 316. I was cruising along, jamming to a random shuffle on the iPod when the car jolted several times. Speed up, shudder, slow, speed up. Russo (my Honda) was throwing himself in and out of Sports Drive (or Super Drive, or Over drive, depending on your own car's make and model. There are probably half a dozen more names).

I can tell you than randomly accelerating and decelerating, jolting forward at haphazard intervals while all the time wondering if your brakes still work, is not my idea of a good time. Determined not to be stranded on the side of the road, I got off and parked at a gas station, taking great care to not hit anyone with my car that had a will of it's own.

I called Dad. He told me to check my transmission fluid. I had absolutely no idea how to do this. I pulled the Honda repair manual from my trunk and consulted it. It contained lots of words that are new to me like “transaxle”. It told me the dipstick for the “transaxle” fluid should be on the passenger side of the engine. I looked and looked but I was so not finding it. Dad volunteered to come rescue me, at which point, any pretense of getting to eat with my grandfather was given up.

While I waited for Dad to show, three young men parked near me and got out, asking if I needed any help.

Exasperated, I laid it down for them, “Well, actually, I'm having a really dumb problem. I'm trying to check my transmission fluid and I can't find where I'm supposed to check it.”

The three of them volunteered to take a look. I was sure I was about to be shown up by men and their useful vehicle knowledge.

They proceeded to spend the next ten minutes searching under my hood for the spot. They couldn't find it either. About seven minutes into it, I exclaimed, “I am so happy I'm not the only one who can't find this!”

They all gave me good natured looks-as-if-our-manhood-has-been-threatened nods and smiles. Then one of them had a eureka moment, reached down into the bowels of the engine and retrieved the dipstick, something I was not able to do later without burning my hand on the still-hot engine.

Even though they claimed to know nothing about cars, two of them accompanied me inside the store to search for transmission fluid. Finding nothing of any use, we all walked back outside, where the most attractive of the three advised me the his “daddy refuses to work on those sideways motors.”, indicating something about my car that I myself had just learned—the engine is set left to right instead of the standard and predictable front to back position. “He's all American.”

“That's pretty funny.”

“I don't know what to tell you.” He grinned. “Buy a Chevy.”

I laughed, and thanked them for their time.

Dad arrived, and after a brief diagnostic in which we discovered, among other things, that I was low on oil, he drove me over to Wal-mart where I purchased fuel injector cleaner, oil, and very expensive transmission treatment ($10!). We then drove back over and applied these various treatments.

I don't know exactly which fluid hit Russo's sweet spot, but in any case, where he was indecisive and uncooperative before, he was now a smooth operator. Fluids in every orifice brought back his stamina, and he was happy and sated. Through, after all that he did have a little trouble getting going again. Russo's pick-up hasn't been the same since. He now needs lots of extra encouragement, like he's self-conscious after being all probed and explored.

I will say that this experience has informed me that I am indeed the girl who doesn't take care of her car. I kept meaning to do all the check-up type things that would have prevented this whole episode, but I just let it slip my mind while I worried about make up and boys.

I course, had I done all the check-up type things, I wouldn't have had the more salacious experience of learning all about what Russo has under his hood.

“Don't forget you are going to help me plan my future tonight, okay?” I yell up to Abie's loft while she's trying to have an international conversation.

“I know, we're going to get high and plan your future.
“Not in that order, though.”

The basic idea (with some can't-talk-about-it-yet ulterior motives) was to map out what I have left to take in order to just graduate, already!

Abie, my dear Abie, did all of the legwork, and I sat and watched her, confused. I am indebted to the redhead, of course. She figured most of it out.

I'm putting it in writing so I have to commit to it: if I'm not out by December of 2007, I will most certainly be out by May of 2008. This is going to happen by picking the pace back up just a bit, taking summer classes, and a fair amount of determination on my part.

Now that I have a date, an idea of what I have to do, I'm much more motivated to go ahead and knock it out. Its not an impassable obstacle but just some hurdles to jump. No problem.

“Abie, you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to graduate.”

I am so tired of the pull they have over me. When it's not a passive aggressive dig at me, it's at themselves. They each, in their own way, refuse to make drastic changes to make their own lives better, even as they complain all the time.

I get frustrated, upset, hurt, and then I have to drive home with myself, wondering if I will ever manage to be any different, from my former self, my present self, or the people that shaped all my selves.

My parents are who they are. As an adult, you learn that your parents are just people too, and you pat yourself on the back for being so grown up, for being able to differentiate yourself from them, and not having to get caught up in their mess.

Somehow you get caught up in their mess anyway. You never really leave home, you never really strike out. You go back from whence you came, and find out you are just the same angry 15 year old that you will be in some facet for the rest of your life. You can't figure out if your anger was and is still justified, or if, in fact, you are just continuing to wallow in your own angst, more comfortable when you are tragic.

late afternoon phone call from a missed friend, sneaking off to go sit by myself on a park bench in the early evening, our beautiful April weather, painful unrequited lust, the “so messy it's punk rock-2 dozen bobby pin” hair style I've nearly perfected, excessive introspection

I noticed over the past few days that I'm usually feeling outside myself. The mouth that is attached to me is talking, my body and face and interacting, and meanwhile, I've been retreating inside of myself, wishing that I was alone.

The thing that really is upsetting about this feeling is that it's happening with just about everybody, even most of the people I'm ‘close’ too. I'll be speaking and be suddenly overwhelmed by this feeling that I have no idea who I am anymore, and I certainly have no idea who anyone else is, and that nothing is simply authentic. None of the connections I have with anyone are real. I'm putting on a show, and they are doing the same.

The revelation only leaves my feeling empty, and less alive than I conjecture I am supposed to. Of course, who knows if that estimate holds any water; it would not be a stretch for me to blow things out of proportion, as I have a violent dramatic streak.

In any case, the fakery, whether or not it's all in my head, is giving my this suffocating feeling from having to entertain everyone, to put on the show, to be the famous, fabulous Jenna Tollerson everyone loves. I simultaneously feel like everything I value is transient and fleeting, hard to grasp.

My theory thus far is this: at some point in the recent past I decided that if I suddenly felt depressed for no reason, that was not okay. I shalln't wallow, I shalln't treat this as anything but a normal day. Right after I cry for 20 minutes I'll clean myself up and push off the dark cloud.

While this system better than wallowing, than thinking about being worthless all day, a happier medium is probably in order. Sharpening up externally and convincing myself that I am really, just fine has produced an entirely different kind of problem.

It doesn't help that the one type of human contact I'd actually like right now is a type I cannot seem to procure. It mostly involves prolonged physical contact, low lights, the opposite sex and absolutely no talking. I'd take it in a platonic form right now, even. I just know that I need to feel heat and muscle and tangible things, and that such an intimate situation allows for much less posturing than typical conversation.

Kevin
     [17:24] I love you, but your new name is still Funk.

Jenna
     [17:25] that's a damn good name

Kevin
     [17:25] Great. I will bequith it to you... but just for BrewFest. Then, I'll retire it.

Jenna
     [17:26] so I can't add it to my ever-growing list of nicknames then?

Kevin
     [17:26] >:-)

Jenna
     [17:27] that is so not an answer

Kevin
     [17:27] Then I can only reply... fuck it, OK.

Jenna
     [17:28] so now I'm Jenna, Jenn, Blue eyes, P.G. Jiminy, Jen-nah-nah-nah-nah, and... Funk

Kevin
     [17:31] I like Funk. It encompasses all of the coolness of Jenna, the truncation of Jen, the hip-tacity of Blue eyes, the "Jenna-ce-qua" of P.G. Jiminy, the Bee-Gee-ness of Jen-nah-nah-nah-nah, and everything else about you that rocks.

Only the good part though. I can't help it, it's just too classic. You read it one way, and it's a well thought out, carefully worded answer, you read it another way and it's just thinly veiled but quality bullshitting.

If I were a “consulting anthropologist” hired by a “prominent conservation group” to design a public outreach program here in the Southeast, I would use the argument of esthetics in my campaign. From a marketing perspective it seems the most feasible in a culture that is, if nothing else, obsessed with youth and beauty. Americans are selfish with their resources, insofar as they will be happy to help with the conservation of biodiversity, as long as it doesn’t interfere with their lives, and especially if it is personally beneficial. Campaigning for more beautiful surroundings as opposed to personal responsibility (ethics) or the next possible cure for cancer (economics) is less abstract, requires less footing in any strong principles, and appeals to our more visceral qualities.

Additionally, specific to the Southeast, our biodiversity is iconic to our landscape—magnolias, dogwoods, Spanish moss—and being a prideful people who think of ourselves as rooted and going back generations, we have it in mind to have our icons preserved.

I would just like to point out that when there is homework to be done, suddenly one also must do laundry, clean one's desk, dust-off the keyboard, do the dishes, run errands, and do anything, anything, but focus on the task at hand.

One might even update their journal to keep from doing homework.

“Can I just complain for second?”

“Sure.” Abie pauses her phone call with David.

“I hate how every one of these goddamn writing assignments is always like ‘Imagine you're an anthropologist...’. How 'bout, no!?! I don't want to! I would just like to write some stupid research paper and get it over with. I don't want to have to use my creative energy on this!”

Abie explains the situation to David, and relays his answer to me.

“David says, ‘Imagine I'm an anthropologist....Tell them, I would take my own life.’”

We laugh. A lot.

And then I remember I'm supposed to be working.

Ergh.

To party with the people you work with is actually way more fun than it sounds. I'm too tired and a little too boozed up to be writing this, but I am. I won't remember these fine details tomorrow.

My first favorite quote of the night, delivered in a steady, calm deadpan, “You know you like them. They're the motherfuckin Beatles, for chrissake.”

My second favorite quote of the night, delivered by a raving drunk. “I'm Robin Williams!”

“Are you?”

(Forlorn.) “No, actually, Nicole's Robin Williams. I wish I was Robin Williams.”

But by far, my absolute favorite, unmatched highlights went something like this:

“Neil loves you! He talks about you all the time. He thinks you're magnificent.”

“Really, you think that?” I said to him.

“Of course. Because you are.”

...

“Jenna, promise me you'll graduate.”

“Neil, I promise you I will graduate someday. Before I'm thirty, at least.”

“That's not good enough. It needs to be sooner.”

“How soon?”

“You just need to finish, soon.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve it.”

...

“Travis, would you describe me as magnificent?”

“Jenna, you are so much more than that.”

...

The theme, at times, seemed to be ‘Jenna Lovefest 2005’.

Neil: “Jenna has the most amazing vocabulary of anyone I know.”

Jenna: “It's just because I read voraciously as a child.”

Katie: “What does voraciously mean?”

Yes folks, that's exactly how it happened.

I have the best super power ever.

And I have the best friends ever. And I do rash things like buy them very expensive bottles of tequila just so they won't forget me.

I'm such a glutton for love.

“The trick is, tell a nearby geek the trivia of your life, and they’ll remember it better than you do. And vice-versa.” [this bit is totally CB and me], “Arclight is trying to convince the Star Wars line to move to Arclight because, well, the movie is actually playing there and not at the theater they are waiting at.”, “Ice is back with my brand-new invention.”, being called out on my mostly vanilla but still inappropriate BDSM tendencies while in the office, checking out my Technorati results and finding a new link from a VIP, making server magic for friends and family, listening to Let Go by Frou Frou (at least 61 times so far, says iTunes), soaking up as much time as I can with my soon–to–be–absent–from– my–day–to–day HGB, learning to be honest with myself about what I want

“You know, I myself have always had a joke that I need an alarm clock that has an arm that comes out and slaps me the face.”

“Well I'm sure that could be arranged, for a small fee.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, and then you'd have an alarm clock that both wakes you up and gives you pleasure.” Neil grinned slyly. This was not worksafe.

I turned bright red, and covered my face with the ten page document I was formatting.

My face is getting hot again just thinking about it.

...

I said my face, you sickos.