JP 2.0

One of the side effects of being a writer (I'm not sure when I decided that I deserved that title, but it sure makes me feel important) is that you inevitably compare the stuff you write with your current life. Also inevitably, the real world falls hugely short of the fascinating fiction that you've created. Such is the case with me, so I want to start making my own personal narrative much more interesting. Batmite once joked that he'd like to ret-con his life, and I think I'd like to do the same. If you don't know what "ret-con" means, then pat yourself on the back, for you are getting sex regularly.

First, I need a better origin story. "Young boy plays school with neighbor girl and eventually becomes a teacher himself" lacks the panache and swashbuckling adventure that my life deserves. Perhaps I was once sucked into a parallel universe in which the narratives of every book ever written existed for real, and then Long John Silver and Holden Caulfield help me battle Moby Dick, Count Dracula, and the personification of post-modern existentialism... played in that universe by Brian Dennehy. Once returning from my dimension-spanning adventure (which is totally not ripped off from the movie The Pagemaster), I'd become so enamored with literature that I'd HAVE to become a high school English teacher.

Second, my life requires a villain, a worthy foe, some adversary whose machinations must be countered by my every life move. I'd imagine a Professor Moriarty type played by Alan Rickman who speaks in a menacing British accent and is obsessed with ruining my reputation... or perhaps stealing a magical jewel or gem that I have in my possession. In fact, I like that second option. In the rebooted version of my life, I use a crystal made of Imaginatium that maintains the balance between fantasy and reality. Of course, this battle between me and my nemesis takes place in my off hours. During the day, my foe works as a rival English teacher who teaches only EVIL literature (like "The Scarlet Letter" and anything written in the Victorian Era).

Third, I need a sidekick... and Batmite would serve this function adequately. He would be the Robin to my Batman... only, you know, without the homoerotic overtones. In the new JP-Prime universe, Batmite's parents were killed during an elephant stampede, so he inherits their fortune, which he uses to assist in my various quests and adventures.

Fourth, lots of chicks! We're talking like James Bond-esque weekly beddings of comely lasses with a penchant for swooning. Of course, these minor sexual conquests will merely mask my unrequited love for some long-term romantic interest who is my intellectual and witty equal with whom I often flirt but never develop a serious relationship with due to various plot machinations that keep us apart. But every few years or so, my long-term love interest and I will get together seriously before she develops amnesia or is manipulated by my archnemesis into betraying me. Then we'll do the whole dance all over again.

I suppose Batmite-Prime can get some secondary chicks. His relationships, while more comical in tone, will likely prove heartwarming... or his women will end up dead as I must assume the role of makeshift legal aide in order to defend Batmite against murder charges.

Finally, in this new rebooted version of my life, I need theme music. I'm torn in this regard. I'm not sure if I want a really hardass rocking song with electric guitars and drums or a sultry, pimp-tastic jazzy number heavy on the saxophones and Barry White vocals. I'm really leaning toward the latter. I have no idea where this music would come from. Maybe set my alarm clock to begin every morning by playing it. Or hell, as long as we're talking parallel universes, let's say it constantly emanates from the aforementioned magical Imaginatium gem.

Oh yeah, and I constantly wear tuxedos, drink scotch on the rocks, speak with a sexy French/Spanish accent, and I have a wicked-awesome beard. Fucking right!

And maybe my Physicist brother in the alternate universe would have already built a time machine and magic wand so that this shit could become reality... unlike the slackass version in THIS universe who hasn't invented diddly-squat (insult will be retracted if he actually builds his solar death ray).

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"I get it now. He bad mouths you, and you make him delicious, sugary energy shakes. And I open my mouth, in a helpful way, and I get slapped. Must be in topsy-turvy world!"

Eating Out on the Town

Cooking for one is no easy feat. Most foodstuffs are not designed with the single novice cook in mind. For instance, the cheapest way to buy potatoes is by the bag, but do you know how long it takes for one person to eat a sack of potatoes? Unless you hear me crooning "Top o' the mornin, to ya!" one week, I'm not scarfing down two or three daily taters. But even ignoring the sizes of items, cooking for one person feels like a lot of wasted effort. It takes at least a half hour to cook a reasonable meal (some sort of meat and a side or two), and then you can always add on the nuisance of clean up.

The inefficiency and labor of old fashioned home cooking often leaves me longing for restaurants and take out shops to prepare my meals for me. What's more, Pittsburgh (and the area surrounding Pitt, in particular) aren't hurting for restaurants... good ones too. The Original Hot Dog Shoppe (affectionately called "The O") is right across the street from my department's building. Primanti Bros. is right down the street should I desire my cole slaw and fries directly on my tasty sandwich. I discovered a lovely place that serves gyros. There are pizza parlors out the wazoo, and a legendary chinese restaurant (for which I have a gift certificate) beckoning me at least twice fortnightly. This discounts the seemingly hundreds of little coffee and sandwich shops littering Oakland and Squirrel Hill.

And yet, despite the temptations of delicious meals placed in front of me with zero effort, I've been dedicated to my home cooking regimen. While my diet certainly plays a hefty part in my decision (most restaurant food doesn't skimp on the calories), the primary inhibitor to my restaurant carousing remains: abject poverty.

Eating out is fucking expensive, and I'm trying to live on my own while unemployed. Oh sure, that five dollar footlong from Subway sounds like a good deal, but I can go to the store and get a loaf of bread, a pound of lunch meat, and some good cheese for less than ten bucks, and that will make me at least five lunches. When you get right down to the numbers (and when on a budget, that's exactly what you do), there's no comparison. Eating out will rape your wallet every time. A box of cereal and a gallon milk gives me breakfast for a week. Two donuts and a cup of coffee one morning costs almost the same. A bag of five frozen chicken breasts cost me $6 at the store today. A buffalo chicken sandwich (with a single chicken breast on it) set me back $8 when I was out at the bar last week.

I wish I'd had this economic revelation during my tenure in Morgantown. Batmite and I ate out constantly due to laziness and insatiable cravings for food of the deep fried variety (or tacos... deep fried tacos were but a dream). I'd wish I had kept track of how much I spent on restaurants during that time... I bet I'd have a lot more money now if I'd channeled my inner Paula Deen back then.

I've found a few cheats for cooking at home. First, I have a few regular standbys that are always easy to make. Pasta is a no-brainer, so there's always some whole wheat rotini in the cupboard and a bag of frozen ravioli in the freezer. Frozen chicken breasts are also a lifesaver because you just toss one in the oven and let it cook. And grilled cheese with tomato soup can be whipped up in a jiffy (I can make the Kessel Run in less than 12 jiffies). I still need to get in the habit of cooking larger meals and leaving leftovers for myself. That would be mighty convenient.

The better I get at cooking, the less likely I am to eat out. With more practice, my food becomes more and more edible, which was often a problem during Grad School Phase I. Every once in awhile, I still crave something from around town, so I eat out occassionally. But I try to limit myself. I'm honestly amazed that since moving to Pittsburgh, I have yet to eat at Primanti Bros. or The O. That's practically Oakland sacrilege. I may have to rectify those oversights simply to satisfy my inner completist.

I do wonder what would happen if I had a lot more money. I suspect my resolve to avoid restaurants would crumble like my hopes and dreams.

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"Homemade [at a restaurant] is a myth. You want to know some things that are homemade? Crystal meth. Crack cocaine. A pipe bomb full of nails. Now we're talkin' homemade!"

Duck and Cover: A Grad School Story

Okay, I wasn't planning on resorting to MORE videos today, but thanks to Cracked.com (7 Horrifying Moments of Classic Kids' Movies) I've got a truly excellent example of an animated metaphor for my time in graduate school.

The following video is the beginning of the Disney movie "Mickey and the Beanstalk" (the plot being what you might expect). What's great about this particular interpretation of the classic story is how thoroughly Goofy's, Donald's, and Mickey's starvation and poverty are explored. In particular, Donald Duck cracks under the pressure and suffers three separate psychotic breaks, and attempts to murder a disturbingly anthropomorphized cow in one instance.

Watch the video. Analysis will follow:

Okay, first of all, they don't make dark and twisted comedy cartoons like this anymore. Second, while the segment illustrates one duck's descent into madness during a famine, it also serves as a parallel for the grad school experience. Allow me to demonstrate.

We open with three miserable saps drowning in existential despair as they attempt to survive on their meager earnings. This comprises the entirety of English graduate students, complete with an extremely lame pun about the cow being an "udder failure." Englishy-types love lame puns (see title above).

But then with no discernible external cause (around 1:55), one of the sufferers snaps at his own narrator (all graduate students imagine having their own narrator) and completely loses touch with reality. This represents the moment when a grad student realizes his or her sense of personal failure and lashes out against whatever happens to be nearby. Incidentally, there's a double parallel in that I've often felt like reacting EXACTLY as Donald Duck does in this part during particularly difficult times of dieting, complete with fantasies of consuming cutlery and dinnerware.

After calming himself down, Donald goes crazy again (2:20) - this time filled with murderous rage. He's out for blood, much like when grad students begin to harbor violent resentment toward their professors: those who heap the abuse upon them with reckless abandon. As the narrator so aptly explains, "He's suffered too much."

If I murder my Old English professor, the hurting will stop.

(Side Note: There's a solid 15 seconds in this clip where it looks for all the world like Donald is planning to butcher Mickey Mouse and eat his carcass. I love old cartoons.)

As time passes, hope seems to be on the horizon. For the grad student, the misery is almost complete, and better prospects await! Early celebration commences (3:17):

Huzzah! We won't be trapped in existential despair forever!

For me, this occurred just after I finished grad school and began looking for worthwhile employment. Hope sprang eternal. Everything in the future looked bright and happy.

But then.... NO! You can't be saying that I'm going BACK to graduate school!!! I thought the misery and pain was finally over!!! The grad student can't take it anymore. Hanging from ceilings and the pulling out of hair (feathers?) commences:
If Alan Shore is my super-ego, being everything that I hope to be that is rich and cultured and awesome in the world, then Donald Duck is my Id, representing everything evil and batshit crazy that I've secretly longed to express.

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"My therapist is a duck. I'm beginning to think he's a real quack!"

A Gentleman's Guide to Bar Brawling

In lieu of coming up with original content, I'll retreat to providing amusing second-hand video.

If you seek fine fisticuffery, young pugilists, Alan Shore of Boston Legal shows you how to conduct a proper brawl. No nincompoopery here, good sirs! You'll like the cut of his jib and his unadulterated moxie (probably the only aspect of Alan Shore that isn't adulterated).

Alan Shore is everything I wish I were. He's Fantasy JP.

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"Don't be deceived by my cushy appearance."

Mimetic Genetics

Have you ever watched an episode of a TV show that involved the main characters dredging up a story about their ancestors, which leads to a flashback episode involving those ancestors... except that the same actors from the show play their own grandparents (or great-grandparents as the case may be)? For instance, Walker Texas Ranger featured several episodes where Chuck Norris played his own great-grandfather as a sheriff in the Old West. Don't you hate it when that happens? What are the odds that a guy would look exactly like his own grandfather? What about the influence of both the grandmother's and mother's genes? That seems like common sense.

Well fuck common sense. Turns out one CAN look just like one's own grandfather.

The picture above is the wedding photo of my grandmother and grandfather (on my dad's side). Notice anything... familiar about my grandfather?
He looks JUST LIKE ME!

(Actually, this picture doesn't quite illustrate it properly, but if you know me personally, you can probably already see the resemblance.)

This revelation occurred this past Christmas when the family was looking at a compilation of wedding pictures that had been assembled for my grandparents' anniversary. (The post is occurring now because I only recently got a digital copy of the picture.) My brother is sitting there staring at my grandparents' picture and then squinting at me. Finally, he says, "You know what? Grandpap looks EXACTLY like [JP]!!"

No one (including me) had picked up on this, but once it was pointed out, everyone saw it. The big ears, the squinty eyes, the furrowed brow, the awkward smile, the ruggedly handsome physique. It's all there. We asked my grandma about it, and she said, "Oh I've noticed that for years." Thanks for letting me know, grandma. (Though imagining my grandmother's perspective regarding me looking like the younger version of her husband leaves me confused and deeply disturbed.)

My grandfather was in the hospital at the time recovering from heart surgery, so when we went to see him, we couldn't help but bring it up. "I've known for a long time..." he drawled in his usual gruff fashion. As coincidence would have it, I was wearing my stylish pea coat at the time, which reminded him of his Navy days. This led to an odd reminscience from my grandfather about a torrid romance between he and his female commanding officer (he had been a nurse) while in the Navy during WWII. The story sounded delightfully scandalous... until he revealed that she was critically wounded at one point, and he had to assist in the failed surgery to save her. Awkward silences abounded.

The unfortunate implication of looking exactly like a younger version of your grandfather is that, logically, you will eventually look like the CURRENT version of your grandfather. Oh how I wish I had a present-day picture of him to put up here to illustrate why this concerns me. On the plus side, he's like 87 years old, so maybe that bodes well for my longevity.

Alternatively, I accept that this photo could be evidence that I will one day travel back in time to become my own grandfather, thus creating a paradoxical time loop that will destroy the multiverse.

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"Oh, a lesson in not changing history from Mr. I'm-My-Own-Grandpa!"

The Bus Stops Here

Okay, so public transportation hasn't really been a lifestyle choice for me so far in my life. Whenever I needed to get somewhere, I've had a totally boss ride of my own and very few parking problems up until now. However, traveling into Oakland from Swissvale every day reveals some inherent traffic and parking problems in driving my own car. Most noticably, I just don't have the money to pay their exorbitant parking fees. So for the last month, I've been taking the Pittsburgh buses to go to class. That's right, those filthy, inefficient, poverty-packed public transportation monstrosities that you've heard so much about. And you know what?

I fucking love it!

Not only do I get to avoid all the traffic of the east side of Pittsburgh, but I don't have to pay a cent for parking or gas. My bus (the one from my actual route pictured above incidentally) stops relatively close to my apartment and comes just about every half hour. As an added bonus, all Pitt students can ride all Allegheny county buses for free!! Epic win!

But the savings and convenience only scratch the surface of explaining the awesome sweetness of the bus. The cast of characters littering the buses on any given day truly makes for an inspirational ride. I could write ten books based around the colorful collection of city travelers that I've witnessed.

A Small Sampling:

The Helpful Talkative Jew: On my second day of riding the bus, I witnessed the first of many eccentric folks: a tubby, bearded Jewish man who spent the entire trip chatting it up with the bus driver. His conversation was innocent enough until he decided that the Port Authority of Pittsburgh buses use inefficient routes, and he adamantly explained to the driver how their route system could be more efficient. "Please stay behind the yellow line, sir," said the patient bus driver. "Don't be such a shmuck. If you'd just cut across 5th Avenue to the Boulevard of the Allies, you'd make it to Centre Ave..." "Sir... please sit down." It went back and forth like this the whole way into campus. He never did get the hint. When I disembarked, the Rabbi Magellan was still extoling the virtues of his directions.

The Senile Babbler: Public buses have a well deserved reputation for featuring some of the mental cases from around the city, and my route is no different. On one occassion, I had the misfortune (or good luck perhaps) to sit across from one such character. This old gentleman swayed back and forth in his seat while muttering to the railing next to him. For all intents and purposes, this guy looked to be completely detached from reality, except when the bus would make a turn onto a new street, then he would point forward in a dramatic fashion (think Captain Picard ordering warp speed) and demand, "Full speed, that-a-way!" before returning to his usual ramblings. This continued the entire way home; however, in one moment of perfect lucidity, he suddenly turned to the poor woman sitting right next to him and said, "Bus is running a bit late today."

The Bubbly Chatter: Bus etiquette is no mystery. I picked up on most of it on just a few trips. The most important thing is to sit down, don't take up two seats, and don't talk to anyone else. Nobody wants to chat; everyone would prefer to travel in peace. But one afternoon, the bus stops at Carnegie Mellon, and the most enthusiastic traveler ever to ride the bus bounded aboard. This spritely young lady decked out in pink (not kidding) hops up the stairs and announces, "HI EVERYONE!" (cue uncomfortable shifting of eyes from passengers) The girl makes her way past me, saying hello to everyone she passes. She finally stops next to a middle aged woman who, as far as I could tell, had no prior relationship with her. She proceeds to tell this unlucky soul about her entire personal history: "You know, I don't normally take the bus home on Mondays, because I normally go to the library on Mondays to study. But today I wanted to go home to study because there's a marathon of Gossip Girl on tonight, and I need to catch up on last season. There's just no time to study and catch on your shows, you know? I'm studying psychology but I just don't know if I can handle the advanced classes that deal with social disorders. Can you believe that there are people out there you can't understand basic social mores?"

The Mad Bomber: This seedy passenger comes aboard wearing a gray hoodie pulled up over his balding head. His remaining hair is matted and stringy. He's wearing sunglasses at dusk and sporting a long black trenchcoat. He's carrying a tattered and very full bookbag. He sits down and stares blankly out the front window. To say that the collective mood of the passengers shifted to "unnerved" would be an understatement. Fortunately, the suspicious gentleman traveled to his destination without incident.

The Comic Book Pedophile: Another instance of criminal profiling. Young children are hardly rare on the bus, and most people pay them no mind even if they're being noisy and unpleasant. This particular young boy was happily absorbed in some sort of nondescript comic book (I didn't recognize the title anyway). Everyone ignored him except for one bespectacled bearded man in his thirties wearing sweatpants and a windbreaker. He comes over and sits down next to the young lad and proceeds to inform him of his sizable comic book collection and explains that he has a rare issue of Spiderman encased in glass "at my mom's house." The man embodied his own trope. The mother eyed him suspiciously, but he seemed so genuinely interested in the boy's comic book that no one could be sure of any questionable intentions. Still, what kind of grown man has engaging conversations with random six-year-olds about comic books while riding a bus (you know... aside from Batmite)?

And on a related note:

I also go jogging/walking in nearby Frick Park from time to time, and the oddballs creep through there as well. Last Monday, I encountered two such yahoos. The first was a carbon copy of the Comic Book Pedophile, complete with beard and thick glasses. Except this guy was wearing a black shirt with the words "HAN SHOT FIRST" emblazoned on the front. If you don't know what that means, you probably get laid on a regular basis.

On the SAME TRIP, I'm jogging back toward my car, and I see a man wandering off the main trail carrying a spade shovel and a very large cumbersome white sack. He sets down the sack about fifty yards into the woods and proceeds to dig into the ground. I wanted no part of witnessing whatever this fellow was trying so unsuccessfully to hide, so I continued on my way. I have no desire to be a helpful informant.

Pittsburgh's got a colorful cast of characters. No wonder my family's from this city.

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"So these people live here?"
"This is a bus. People use it to get places that they need to go."