Six feet over...joyed!

This last season of Six Feet Under has been so fantastic, I would be remiss not to give a wee shoutout. Considering how many shows lose momentum after being on for too long (The Simpsons, Oz, the news, etc.), the writers at Six Feet Under have gone out of their way to ramp things up, ensuring that this will be one program that goes out with a good taste in everyone's mouth. The dialogue is sharp, the metaphors haunting, and the drama is powerhouse. I recommend the show to the maximoso, and if you don't have HBO, rent the DVDs or use Internet piracy (I've heard some people do this. Ahem.)
Two great quotes from this season:
Maggie (George's daughter) to Nate: "Well, I know that if you think life's a vending machine and you put in virtue and get out happiness, you're going to be disappointed."
Lisa, explaining Brenda's miscarriage in a dream sequence: "Your insides must have gotten damaged by all that anonymous cock."

That reminds me of how my mom told me this weekend that she recently found my blog. Um by the way, I actually hate insults about anonymous private parts.

Don't forget, Nikki Roxx signed my arm.

Anti-Climax

When I take so long to finish an anecdote, I lose both the wind in my sails and the ability to remember a story's choicest details (I blame drugs.) Nonetheless, here's an abbreviated version of a long-awaited fable:

Jon, cousin Erin and I hurtled over to the Good Time Emporium, deep in East Somerville, for some New England Championship Wrestling. After driving around for what seemed like forever, we ended up at a strange seedy family funhouse under a strange seedy overpass in a strange seedy part of town.
Generally the whole night was pretty hilarious. Many of the wrestlers looked like they were fresh out of rehab or mothering 8 children, the pageantry was fabulous and pathetic and the "wrestling" had the quality of a poorly choreographed teen dance routine. And yet, I am not one of those jerks who goes to monster truck rallies and amateur wrestling purely for irony, so I can guffaw with my cultured friends before taking refuge with the New Yorker and a glass of pinot. No, I find things like rodeos and stunt lumberjacks and car races legitimately entertaining. That's why I miss Wisconsin.

A few choice moments from the evening:
-The morbidly obese man in front of me started yelling at deceptively-named Luscious Lily that the only thing she knew how to wrestle was a box of Twinkies. I wanted to say, "You're so fat, mister..." but then I realized it was no place to be self-righteous.
-The ticket taker tried to make nice with my little cousin, so I gave him a quick dropkick in the spirit of the evening.
-Ethnically questionable Alere Little Feather made her NECW debut with her mascot, which was a stuffed Alf doll with a little headress*. When she was royally trounced by someone from Waterbury, Connecticut, another boisterous fan yelled out "Go back to Arizona!", which is apparently where all the fake Indians come from. Personally I think "Go back to Connecticut!" would've been much ruder.
-After another rookie wrestler made her debut and started getting creamed, an amped-up female fan started screeching: "You know where you are?!! You're in the jungle baby!!" and then proceeded to sing most of The GnR favorite in an Axl falsetto. Yowza.

*I later figured out that ALF is the first letters of 'Alere Little Feather.' This begs the question, did she make up her special American Indian name because she wanted to bring her doll to wrestling matches?
I can't know.

Figgie Trickster

Camping party this weekend- live music, tasty beer, good times had by all. The only problem is, while we were sleeping, Nicole and I were paid a visit by the trickster figure that seems to pop up across all times and cultures. He left a package of fig newtons in my truck and cut a weird gash across my nose. I'm not kidding. Why must you torment me, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi?


Mr. Trickster

What's a few maggots among friends?

When I went to change the trash this evening, there was a hole in the bag and out came a writhing mass of squirmy little wrigglers. Ben and I squashed a bunch with our shoes and I went out and washed the can with the little trickle that comes from the spigot. The amazing thing was how calmly my roommates responded to this horrible vision. It was like, "There's maggots in the house, did you catch the game?" Personally, I think I'm going to have nightmares about Ramsey's hair wriggling out of the trash can and squirming all over the floor.

BFF 4 eva

Monday night, my friend Desiree came to town to rock with her 8-person band. I was still feeling sick but hey, I like people and stuff. So I accidentally drank a beer and a gindrink and stayed up really late. Desiree and one of her bandmates crashed on my couch. The plan was to wake up at 8:30 and grab some quick coffee with Des before work. Well, ever-thoughtful Desiree thought maybe I'd like to get up at 7:30 to get a jumpstart on my day. So she knocked and knocked and knocked on my door until I woke up like a sick, angry grizzly. Des just smiled sweetly and explained that she was bored and thought maybe I was bored too. "Tee-hee don't be mad." It was just so friggin' cute I could've puked. I felt like puking.

First-world woes

On my second day of work last week, I was riding my bike to the train station. All of a sudden it was pouring rain and I was soaked to the core. Then it stopped raining by the time I got to the office. The next day, the exact same thing happened. The rain only occurred during the five minutes I was on my bike and thus, vulnerable to the elements. Then I had to spend both days in a climate-controlled office in wet clothes. By sundown of day 2 I was sniffling and coughing. One week later, I'm still sick. Would it smack of paranoia or narcissism if I mentioned my theory about God wanting me to be ill for the big Western Mass. camping party this weekend?

A Wiscontest

On a whim, I typed in some excerpts from my blog into a search engine yesterday. Imagine my shock and dismay when I found out the Portage people I have slandered so viciously could find this webpage by Googling themselves. So now I would like to go back and change these names but I need your help. Please e-mail me some clever pseudonyms for Portage's finest citizens and the best ones will be used to stave off a libel lawsuit. Ask not what this blog can do for you...

MIA Culpa

Did I remember to tell you the story of how Alli and I had tickets to see cutting-edge M.I.A. perform last week, only to miss her show because we were drinking cheap beer in a rat-infested alley near Fenway Park? Oh I forgot? Hm, you'd think I'd want to share a proud moment like that right away...

True Class

Last week I worked two days stuffing envelopes for LandVest, a real estate agent that deals exclusively in million-dollar estates. Everyone was high-powered wheeler-dealers, dressed to impress and desperately trying to make those three-figure commissions. Considering how fancy this place was, I think it's awesome:
a)There was a big sign on the fridge that said "STOP, Do NOT take anyone else's food!"
b)Walking by the women's restroom, I saw they provided sanitary devices for the ladies...at 25 cents a pop!

Hair!

Only this-
My roommate Ramsey shaved off his mini-Afro yesterday, which is okay. He actually looks pretty good, unlike some head-shavers who display domes riddled with weird nooks and crannies like the moon or an english muffin. However, Ramsey's full mane is now sitting in the bathroom trash, sculpted in such a way that it appears to have a head underneath it. A human head.

Hiatus

I start a new job tomorrow as a a researcher at a law firm. Now before you get mad at me for not being a reporter (for the time being,) please keep a few things in mind:
1)After much searching, I was offered two reporting positions, one at an Irish-American newspaper called The Emigrant, at $10 an hour with no benefits (impossible to survive on here). The other offer was at a suburban daily, the pay was pretty rotten, I would have had to drive 45 minutes each way to get there, my truck has 190,000 miles on it, and the editor wasn't friendly or respectful. In fact, I Felt very bad vibes about this position, for a whole host of reasons (such as the fact that it's owned by Boston's biggest tabloid.) I couldn't take those jobs.
2)I turned down one well-paying job (payroll clerk at an upscale temping agency) because it would have forced me to wear a tie, shoulder incredible stress and interact with shallow women and aggressive men all day. I can't just work at any well-paying corporate lackey job, so I am not a total whore. Right?
3)My buddy Jon, the guy who helped me get the position, says it is a good group of people to work with, the duties are not too soul-crushing and the place treats its employees really well. This place was actually rated one of the top 100 places in America to work by Fortune magazine. (By contrast, Capital Newspapers gave 25 cent raises each year and wouldn't pay to put Microsoft Word on our computers.)
4)I have a lot of credit card debt and student loans, and I would like to be able to get ahead on my bills and save a little for the future. This job pays way more money than I've ever seen.
5)It'll be cool to work with Jon- he's a good guy with a sharp sense of humor who enjoys an occasional beer or three.

And for anyone who's saying right now, "If we can't count on Jesse to tell a simple story about a night of pro-wrestling, how can we trust he'll ever be a writer again?" just know that the wrestling tale is so close to being told, I can taste it. Also, the story of how I got rescued when my car died in a Wisconsin blizzard...
All in due time.

My calling

Sometimes you just stumble upon your life's true purpose like a little burst of temping magic. Today I am calling produce managers from H.E. Butts (not a joke) grocery stores to ask about their refrigerated veggie dips. It's called Project Ranch. How can it be wrong when it feels so right?

Steam Logic

It would be remiss of me to not talk about the evening of lady's amateur pro-wrestling I had with Jon and my cousin Erin in East Somerville Sunday night. But first I would like to ask my readers a question.
When they first invented steam trains, why didn't they just put wheels on them and drive down roads? I mean, who was the yahoo who said they needed to be limited to wherever they happened to build tracks?
I imagine there's some logical scientific reason behind this but my booze-addled left-brain can't come up with one.
So please, I implore you my readers, please lend some insight. If the answers are productive enough, I'm sure I can be convinced to tell you about my pro-wrestling adventure.
Nikki Roxx
A teaser- I got hometown hero Nikki Roxx to sign my arm (sh, don't tell Nicole.)