Ode To My Cell Phone From The Future

Dear 2006 flip phone,

I would like to take this moment to thank you for being so overwhelmingly sleek and trendy while always being at the heart of laughter when you surface from my pocket.

You are a rare gem of cutting edge technology that can only be rivaled by a universal remote, since it serves humanity with distinction. You expanded your jurisdiction to control features that the mind is still incapable of grasping, like texting, taking photos, and constantly searching for a faint signal.

Your sexiness simply astounds me. When I am beginning a conversation and ending one, everyone knows since you make a loud clicking sound and slam shut with the integrity of a brick. Many times I have been with you, in public, proud to show the world the latest and greatest in technology, and people stare in disbelief. I'm pretty sure I am the only person in the world with a phone like you.


You are a smart phone, by the classic definition, not for 3G purposes. Your flashlight application has saved my neck many times in the dark. I still can't believe that you come equipped with a calculator and a two hour battery life!

You bring joy to my conversations. You are timeless. You are even my timepiece. I would wear you on my wrist if it wasn't illegal. (You have not even been released to the public yet). People call me, simply to tell their friends that they had the pleasure of talking to someone with a flip phone, and sure, it hurts my feelings when they call only to do this, but I understand the consequences of being the owner of such an amazing cell phone.

You are the only phone I have ever come in contact with that uses a puppy whimper ring tone when you are set to vibrate. Not because you came in contact with water or anything, but because there's nothing that suggests a subtle alert like a puppy crying.

Zack Morris endorsed you years ago, because he too came in contact with the phone from the future. Blackberries cringe in terror at your very sight and secede to defeat. They simply can not compete with you, flip phone. It is said that when iPhones are in your company, they keel over and die, effectively becoming bricks because your wavelength is overbearing. I will never forget that time I made that universal phone call to the Bulgaria and I carried a conversation with someone in a ruinous apartment, underground and hundreds of miles from a cell tower.

The best thing about you, flip phone from 2006 though, is that when I sit on you, you don't dial dolphin ninjas from outer space. I hate when that happens.

Sincerely,

JJ

Deep Thoughts About the Deep South

After going on a completely spontaneous road trip through Mississippi, it's only fitting that I consider how Christopher Walken's experience might have been had he been there alongside me. It was a trip without purpose or a destination. It made little sense, but a schizophrenic could easily map it all out.

Conversation Along the Way

Christopher Walken: Mississippi feels like the very first conversation I've ever had. The first time I ever had a real conversation with a woman was in college. I had chatted with girls all through high school. I had exchanged some ideas, but never a full conversation. Then I met Heidi and we started chatting on and off, which was really beneficial and detached.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was having my very first conversation. We had quite a few conversations after that, although at first I was insecure about my ability to converse. But then it came naturally to me and I was lasting longer during conversation. I was finally able to satisfy girls' desires to have conversations when I gently stroked serious subject matter with a soft touch. I knew all the right things to talk about to drive a girl crazy. I became a fiend for it. I was enjoying an amazing variety of conversational topics, so I didn't care. And I started conversing with other girls. And then Heidi wished she had never talked to me after that.

Ever since then, it's been short meaningless conversation after the other. And that's what Mississippi is like. A conversation with a beautiful woman who wants you to commit and stay. Don't just drive through. I want to continue this conversation JJ.

Me: Wow. That's quite the analogy. By conversation you're referring to something else, right?

Christopher Walken: No. What else would I possibly be referring to? So anyways, did you know that the question mark is originally from an Egyptian hieroglyph that represents a cat walking away? It's the tail, you know. And that symbol means — well, whatever it is when they're ignoring you. You completely ignored me during our conversation.

Me: Sorry. I was listening, but just didn't catch what you were saying.

Bubble Gum and Fried Chicken

Christopher Walken: You know, I love Mississippi. The people are nice. And they chew bubble gum religiously. I respect that. It means they have something to chew on. It also means they are not sinister and this is because of the gum. I have perfected the art of the bad guy in film and I have never entertained chewing bubble gum because it would devastate any chance I had making you crap your pants in terror.

Me: You always chew gum though.

Christopher Walken: Yes, but are you attempting to make a valid point?

Me: Nope.

Christopher Walken: And this fried chicken thing. I feel if Mark Twain were alive, he'd write a memoir about how overrated it is, since everything in the south is fried. I could tap-dance with any plate of food in the south. But don' tell me something is fact. I take an active disinterest in facts. Chicken Fried Steak is actually beef. This is not a fact. It really depends on how you say it, whether comically, tragically, and in every conceivable ethnic accent. I am terribly tempted to club a baby seal and deep fry it.

Bible Belt and Pants

Christopher Walken: I like suspenders. But being in the bible belt here in the south makes me feel like letting loose and letting my trousers hang down to my ankles.

Me: Why are you taking your pants off in the car?

Christopher Walken: Son, just trust the process. It's not healthy to always wear a belt. Or question your elders for that matter. Sometimes you have to just let loose. Even the Bible belt region. Unbutton the top button, unzip your pants. Have fun. Ahh! Much better. This is what I love about the south.

Me: Can you put your pants back on?

::Christopher Walken blankly stares at me in response to my request, without the slightest hesitation, and he fixes his gaze at me in disgust. He continues this for the next three hours without flinching or looking away::

Likely Responses To Unlikely Questions

::The following are scenarios that are loosely based on fact::

Infamous Excuses

Question:"Hey, JJ, you didn't come out yesterday. It was fun. What were you doing instead? Watching reruns of 90210?"

Answer:Yes, actually. I was. I was also filing my finger nails, eating Luna bars, writing in my journal, counting calories, scheduling months in advance, shopping for tampons online, and sewing an elaborate quilt adorned with the face of Luke Perry.

Bad Impersonations

A Doctor: Snap! You may have developed skin cancer.

Me: You want to talk to the Macho Man about his skin? Brother, you want to tell the Macho Man that the years of tanning and oiling his body so that each muscle would glisten under the arena light has made him an excellent candidate for skin cancer? The Macho Man has discovered the cure for cancer, and it is being 100 percent macho all the time. And SNAP INTO A SLIM JIM! OH-YEAH!

I Swear That Was You

Question: Were you on the back seat of another man's motorcycle the other day? I know it was you JJ.

Answer: Impossible. Unless there are three dudes on a motorbike, or it's a pink scooter with little room for dignity, then it likely wasn't me. Oh - are you sure it wasn't me riding a tandem bike with one of my dudebros? That's simply how hambros roll, brah!

Making A Statement As A Sandwich Artist

Question: Oh - I see. So you're like a starving artist now?

Me: Negative amigo. First of all I work in Subway. Second, this work of mine is called Sunset, though any sense of peacefulness that it conveys is ironic. I think I’ve made it obvious that the rows of roast beef are a satirical comment. The splash of honey mustard between the lettuce and meats explores that middle ground where cosmic destiny and human will collide. I’ve been trying to push myself with new textures and colors. I love the way the meat has a sort of iridescence that dances across its surface like the dusk-red sun atop the stippled sea.

O.C.D. On The Road

Beautiful Girl: It's so fun riding with you in your car JJ!

Me: Get your dirty paws and feet off my dashboard you damn ape or get out of my car.

Being That Guy

Question: Yo, JJ, Why you illin' B?

Me: I feel fine. My temperature is at a healthy 98.6 degrees and I exercise regularly, thank you very much. I suspect your discomfort with me stems from the fact that I am the only white guy in your rap group. Geez K-Pain, relax. Care to play hop-scotch?

Who You Gonna Call

Question: JJ, so who are you gonna drunk dial?

Me: Church. I'm going to drunk dial a church. And I'll ask if they have any peanut butter chicken with mustard bean pie. Do you think nuns answer? I think nuns secretly operate 1-900 numbers. This is the best idea I've ever had!

Washing Away The Guilt

Question: Dude, is that David Hasselhoff over there?

Me: It is. This is the happiest moment of my life. I'm going in closer to touch him.

::I'm taking a massively mini vacation to the deep south, but I'll try to update this blog on the road::

Anything Less Would Be Uncivilized

I yawn at the prospect of gracing celebrities with my presence. But at times, I look to the gentle authority of social convention, consideration for others, and simple good manners.

That's why I chose to honor mega filmmaker, Richard Linklater's request to visit my house Monday. Why did he want to come you ask? Fine question. He may or may not be interested in passing scores of money from his lucrative account, into mine. I wish I had a more direct answer for you, but I do not.



During his brief, yet time well-spent stay, we discussed business. I do not like talking business, especially with those who have agendas to turn my living space into a giant movie production. But his vernacular was well-seasoned, as if he had made such proposals before.

And then he made his way to my DVD collection, (two of which were films he directed; Dazed and Confused and Slacker). He then followed with a series of comments pertaining to my refined taste in film. All of which were flanked by the fact I knew who he was, and he was flattered. I then invited him to compliment my taste in film, art, and photography.

"Yes, only the best," I said. "Those photos. I took them."

He was so impressed that this information warranted no response, and he paid little attention as the subject matter changed. He became more interested in what I do in life.

Richard Linklater: So JJ, what do you do?

::His production manager interrupts to say he's seen me on TV at News 8.

Me: Yes. He speaks the truth. But anyways ... I used to make a fool of myself on TV. Nothing to write home about.

Richard Linkalter: Interesting.

And I am impressed with my ability to accompany a celebrity and not try to steal their thunder when taking a photograph. Because I have a bad habit of doing so. The picture below is Quentin Tarantino, and note how I'm informing him to look at the camera, as if he's never come across a camera before and was ill-informed on how to react.

Q&A with the Least Interesting Man in the World

::In the spirit of fairness, the Most Interesting Man in the World sits down with the Los Angeles Lakers forward Pao Gasol for a brief Q&A about being disturbingly lame::



The Most Interesting Man: Are you allowed to carry credit cards, Pao?

The Least Interesting Man: Yes, because my personality is not a fraction as magnetic as yours is.

The Most Interesting Man: My friend, your beard. It intrigues me, not in a good way either. What have you achieved with your beard?

The Least Interesting Man: Um, I once caught Kobe's sweat with it when I was following up a rebound.

The Most Interesting Man: When you're not rollerblading, what are you doing with your life?

The Least Interesting Man: Probably studying other, more interesting men, like Mutombo and Pauly Shore.

Most Interesting Man: You disgrace me. You and your Los Angeles Lakers team. I can not continue this interview with you. You're equipped with the intellect of a little pancake. You're a mistake of evolution. Watching you makes my eyes go blind with mustard.

Least Interesting Man: I'm sorry. I am an accurate basketball player though.

Most Interesting Man: What does that even mean? Are you a blow dart expert? For accuracy, there is no better measure. Gifted operation of a blow dart can knock out a raging sumo wrestler charging you or ever so slightly blow-dry the matted hair of a waterlogged baby bird.

Least Interesting Man: Slap me in the face. I would be honored and I will have something to tell my grandchildren.



Most Interesting Man: Gladly. I look forward to watching your team suffer from the more manly team in red.

Advice From A Person Who Minored in Psychology

::The following counsel is not meant to substitute for professional therapy, the endorphin surge of a long run, prescription drugs, hot bubble baths, yoga, or rolling your car windows up and singing sad love songs::

Dear JJ,

I am in my mid twenties and I am experiencing the quarter-life crisis. I am not the adventurous type, but lately all I want to do is run naked across the city, grow a beard and write a lengthy how-to novel about dance moves for every occasion in life. Any sage advice?

-- Derek in Piedmont

Dear Derek,

It sounds as if you have gone completely existentially limp and the only things that interest you now are activities that swallow any level of maturity you may heave achieved. Is it your intent to recklessly embarrass anyone in your company? Good for you if so.

Your desire to grow a beard is not unlike any other man, especially if during your tenure in growing it you detach yourself from the tether of life's responsibilities and spend all your time watching Kung Fu: The Legend Continues.

Now, Derek, if anyone is going to successfully pen a book about specific dance moves for every occasion in life, it's going to be me, not you, so you can put that puppy to rest. Either way, here are some broad thoughts: Implement a trial and error strategy for finding the most chesty, uninhibited opportunities to expose your most uncalled for desires and run with it. I completely endorse the activity of running in the nude.



Dear JJ,

I just bought a pair of roller blades and I'm not sure what to do now. I mean, I LOVE rollerblading, but how do I tell my parents? I just wanna roller blade and maybe dance afterwards. Help me JJ.

Sincerely,
--Strawberry Swirls

Dear Strawberry Swirls,

Telling your parents that you are gay is never easy. But the first step is realizing it. I suggest just taking notes from a previous client I've helped.



Dear JJ,

What's in my stomach right now?

Sincerely,
--Hungry Hungry Hippo

Dear Hungry Hungry Hippo,

Breath mints and not a damned thing else. I know this because your stomach and I just happen to have a mutual friend. How else would I know this information? This is only an advice column, but I hear your stomach is feeling empty and is unsatisfied with work lately. Too much gastrointestinal buildup can lead to unneeded stress. My unsolicited advice to your stomach is to listen to it, build a deeper relationship with it and never ignore it when it's reaching out to you.



Dear JJ,

I am only happy when I eat. What does this mean?

Sincerely,
--When I walk my thighs look like two seals clapping

Dear When I walk my thighs look like two seals clapping,

I find your name humorous, but please don't think that I'm laughing at your expense. I suggest you look at yourself in the mirror and channel a resolve that is required when eating at a buffet and become reacquainted with that smile that surfaces at the sight of red velvet cake. Embrace your appetite, and welcome the inevitability in becoming morbidly obese. True happiness is found in food.

Dear JJ,

All I want to do is return to the '80s but I'm told there's no reason to go back. Can you shed some light on time traveling?

Respectfully,
--Slap Bracelets Rule!

Dear Slap Bracelets Rule,

It's no surprise that the '80s were spectacular years but I will not validate this inquiry with a response.

Dear JJ,

I am trying to avoid old age at all costs. Any suggestions?

Tom in Los Angeles

Dear Tom,

I am not a big fan of stating the obvious, but plastic surgery is a fine alternative to letting gravity take hold of your face. May I suggest you get an eye lift. Otherwise, if you do not have this procedure done, you will be condemned to the unspeakable state of looking at your age in the mirror every morning.

Dear JJ,

I love bananas, but why is it impossible for me to eat them when I'm in a public place?

-- Fruitless in Seattle

Dear Fruitless,

I suspect your fear of consuming bananas in public areas is a deep rooted insecurity that I am not qualified to answer. Logic would suggest that you consult with someone with a degree in culinary arts.

When Clammy Hands Eff My Life Up

::The following is a brief recap of the most epic moments in my life that ended terribly at the perils of my clammy hands surfacing at the most inopportune time, dampening my memory of the experience with failure and grief::

My 7th Grade Dance
I was 13-years-old and armpit hair was vaguely evident. My voice cracked Da Vinci codes and I was terrified of girls. My shy and quirky demeanor made the faintest attempt at gaining confidence a feeble cause. But something inside of me (testosterone?) told me to let them descend and become a man. So I approached the most unattainable girl in my grade who had the least bit of working knowledge of my very existence. I walked up to her, with my hands in my pockets (which were actually reservoirs of watery mayhem) and asked, "wanna dance?" "OK," she said. I extended my hand and she grabbed it, but it slid out of her grasp like a fish out of water. She winced in disgust and never looked back. The end. This single event would later lead to me taking up oil panting hand art as therapy.

The Job Interview Handshake I was sitting in a large advertisement firm several years ago during the final round of my job interviews. I had nailed all three meetings, and articulately explained my experience and skills while outlining heroic work stories and life experiences that were laced with charm and humor. The only thing that stood between me and employment was the handshake, which is anything but a perfunctory gesture. I slimed the hiring manager with my sweaty palms, effectively defining myself poorly. It was the worst handshake ever, lacking key components: a swift, elegant movement toward the waiting hand, wise use of the eyes, grip strength, even the rhythm of the shake was off. And it was one of those glued handshakes that exceeded four seconds. I watched his smile instantly become terror when our palms collided and I knew it was over. Thank you clammy hands!

Being the Hero

I simply couldn't hold on. She slipped because of my clammy hands. I would be a hero, and a real man if I just held on to her.

When I Was Asked to Win the Game

The game was tied. There were two seconds left on the clock. I was called off the bench. All we needed to do was score and we win and I would be carried off the court and probably become the first freshman prom king ever. My teammate passed me the ball. I was wide open, but the ball slipped right through my fingers and into the hand of a teammate, who was behind me. He caught the ball, shot and scored. I briefly considered stealing the ball from my own teammate. To this day, I am certain that had my hands been dry, and I caught the ball, I would be playing semi-pro ball in the Ukraine. I was relegated to riding the pine and preparing Gaterade for everyone thereafter, sometimes dying my hands red in process.

Ending My Hand Modeling Career

I had it all. I was on top of the world. Making good money, and being recognized as the premiere authority in truly beautiful and dainty hands. I kept the secret hidden, until I was confronted by jealous fat hands, which were more like chubby paws. They released viral video of me wiping my hands on my pants at a rampant rate. During a photo shoot, my hyperhydrosis sweaty palm condition accelerated at such a rate that it began to rain during my audition for jazz fingers. It was grotesquely embarrassing and tragic. To this day, my hands are now known as slip 'n slides with zero marketing ability. The embarrassment keeps them in my front jean pockets most of the time now.

That Time We Took That Artsy Photograph In theory it was genius. Take a picture with everyone's hands bearing a pile of colorful pastel chalk powder. It was then that I realized my clammy hands do not welcome lilac colored chalk powder, since it created the volcanic chemical reaction of mixing baking soda and vinegar. A pungent odor killed the collaborative spirit of the group, prompting everyone to isolate, and shun me, while turning my hands into the subject of an unbelievable photo opportunity. While trying to wash off the chalk, I realized my sweaty palms might be hazardous, so I sheathed them in HAZMAT gloves for several months, avoiding direct sunlight and cameras.

Romantically Reading Palms

I had reached the summit of my romantic life. I was ringing door bells and holding single roses in my mouth, reciting obscure lines in classical French literature, and doing all the little things, like not describing wine as "alcoholy" or "wine-a-licious." But I crossed the line when I decided to go to have a palm reader analyze my palms and read into my future.

Palm Reader: Crisco shortening and Dove Soap will make an unthinkable business merger and you will lead the way with your cosmically impossible clams for hands. I can't guarantee love is in your future. You will get slapped in the face by sweaty gym socks. She will leave you for another man with dry, callous hands.

::she hands me a tissue to dry hands::

This blog is supported by the guarantee that I no longer have clammy hands. I promise.