Sunday Morning Infomercials

When my mother lived here, we would sit around her bedroom and watch informercials on Sunday Morning. It’s basically an ICU for careers that have a small likelihood of being resurrected.  Many are not as lucky as the king of informercials, George Foreman.  Currently, I have owned two George Foreman grills…. TWO!  No one needs two, but the upgrades (removable plates) had me sold.  Good job, George. I hope you enjoy counting the money I gave you.

Today, I sat down in our living room and turned on the television to discover Mr. T selling a Flavorwave oven. He literally burst through a door when he walked in, and he said, “I pity the fool.”  The sad thing is that the Flavorwave is an imitation of the Nuwave Oven.  You can tell the NuWave came first because there is no celebrity endorsements.  People who purchased the NuWave oven did so because they thought it was phenomenal product… people who buy the FlavorWave were drawn in by Mr. T embarrassing himself on screen. You usually forget he was an actor on television because his performance in this infomercial is ridiculous – AND HE’S SUPPOSED TO BE HIMSELF.

Moving on… I’ve also seen Montel Williams selling a blender that can grind up concrete and make soups.  I remember Montel Williams from my childhood because I confused his name for William Tell all the time.  As an adult, I know the difference because William Tell, the European myth, would never be caught dead or alive selling stupid crap like a power bow and arrow (it would also probably be illegal because it would be awesome).  Montel makes it seem as if it was impossible to cook without this thing.  How hard is it to boil water and throw in some pieces of chicken, veggies and maybe even some noodles?  Not too hard that I feel compelled to purchase his blender – also, all his soups are blended together – like hot baby food.  Who the hell wants to eat that all the time?

Next, we have Chuck Norris.   Chuck Norris?!  The guy who can cure cancer with his tears?  He’s selling me the Total Gym.  I can sort of see Mr. T having to sell crap on TV…. and Montel Williams needs to pay the bills somehow, but Chuchk Norris!?  Google “Find Chuck Norris” and click I’m feeling Lucky.  You’ll see that a man of this status should never be forced to sell garbage on TV.  Perhaps the government should give him a bail out for solve whatever monetary woes he might be having.  Of course there is a chance he actually believes in this product.  If that’s the case, rock on Chuck.

JJRC

Evangelized

I have been hanging out in Peru for the past week and change.  It’s been an interesting experience due to the high level of Evangelical Christians that now share my last name and their never ending efforts to make me see the Lord and all His goodness.

I find it acceptable the way my aunt speaks to me.  She and I have intellectual discussions where we actually come to a conclusion without meandering or mincing both words and meanings.  Meanwhile, my uncle has decided to begin a full frontal assault on my Catholic faith and my Christian values.

I am far from a religious person, but I will definitely defend my Catholic upbringing, my parents’ wishes that I be Catholic, and the overall purest teachings of the Catholic Church.  Of course, I will not defend the actions of the church when it comes to pedophiles, contraceptives and gays.  My social thinking is far more liberal than my traditional religious convictions.

My uncles first plan of attack involved a complete assault on the Saints.  To be perfectly honest, I don’t have a saint that I pray to or pay alms to.  I do respect the choice of anyone to take on a saint as a point of intercession, of course I don’t (and neither does the Church) condone the substitution of God for an idol of  a saint.  The purpose of the Saints are merely to set pious examples of the holiest lives.  The Saints are not infallible. In fact, most saints carry deep character flaws such as doubt, envy and blasphemy.  Having found God and corrected their lives (I’m specifically thinking of Saul on the way to Damascus and Peter fleeing Rome), they have set prime examples of piety, grace and salvation.

Our conversation quickly moved from that to the discussion on the wasteful Church.  The city where my parents are from in Norte Chico, Peru has an annual festival in honor of St. Jerome.  This coincides with the drunken mess that manifests itself in Little Italy every year in October.  My Uncle argued that each year that money could go for so many services to help the poor and feeble.  Earlier that day, my uncle had mentioned that his church was raising money for electric guitars and amplifiers to properly praise God.  I mentioned this in response to the claim of the annual festival.  We moved on to another topic.

He indirectly called me a sinner and mentioned that my way of thinking was incorrect.  It is man’s way of thinking.  Meanwhile, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.”   I might have to bring this up next time he states that my forms are prayer are incorrect, that my thanks are empty, and that my love for my parents is not sufficient and that with my sole existence and lack of faith I offer a disservice to their hard work.

Also, the God of my uncle must be praised and we must thank him continuously.  That picture of God is of a blind egoist, a powerful narcissist.  One who requires praise and honor is not one who pleases God.  He wants everyone of his followers to be meek and humble.  Meanwhile God is continuously praised and honored for bestowing gifts we did not ask for.

I do not recall asking for an analytical mind, a good family, and life.  That does not mean that I do not want these things.  I’m far happier being able to read and assess many different things, but it seems wrong to have to thank God continuously for freebees.  It is as if I made a major donation to a Hospital and placed it on all the papers.  The donation’s existence would last as long as the praise and adulation lasted.  Once that fades, so does the donation and so does the fiscal stability of the hospital.

I’ll need to reevaluate my thoughts on God after this trip.  I may be turning away from the Lord for a little bit to better come to a conclusion after my own assessment of the facts and faiths.

JJRC

Trimming the Fat

I know I made a mess of myself.  When I was 20 and a junior in college, I weighed 248lbs.  This is according to my doctor.  By the time I graduated college, I was tipping the scales at 260-265lbs.  This is an estimate since I was actually concerned about hopping on the scale (there are weight limits on those things, you know).

Why did I let it get out of control? The simple answer is because I didn’t care to control it.  I simply let myself float towards the heavier portion of the scales.  I easily gained 60lbs while I was in college. Each year, I had a more obvious double chin, and soon I stopped appearing inphotos.  By my senior year, I was in almost none.  I became a photographer to avoid being photographed, which worked out well since I enjoy having a camera and capturing things that I feel are worth remembering (be it a game of beer pong or a tree in the Arts Quad).

Since college, I have lost the weight and then some – which is actually quite nice and required little active work.  It was mainly a lifestyle change… smaller portions and less butter, oil, grease.  Within the last few months, I find myself drinking less.  Recently, I’ve started going to the gym and running.  Where I found it quite difficult to run home after class, now I easily run 3-4 miles. Of course, I would love to be healthier, but it’s a work in progress.

The reason I bring this up is because of an article I read in the New York Times.  The article, “Heavier Americans Push Back on Health Debate”, struck a cord with me.  It boggles my mind that there are organizations like National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance and Council on Weight and Size Discrimination (I tend to believe that the latter serves a more legitimate purpose – the prevention of discrimination).  At my heaviest, I was never exactly proud of my size, and I was very aware of the health risks it posed for me as a young adult.  With diabetes, heart disease, and stroke running strong on my father’s side of the family, I was never comfortable with my expanding waistline.

I was not and could not be proud to have joined the ranks of so many obese Americans.  At the age of 20, I was an American stereotype.  I was too large for certain seats.  It is actually a concern that stuck with me.  It is one of the prominent reasons why I will not sit on the subway during Rush Hour.  I can now comfortably fit in the seats, but at 260, I would most likely spill onto another passengers lap.  It is embarrassing, and it is somewhat shameful.  The resolution to this dilemma is not produce larger and larger seats but educate the public and produce smaller and smaller waistlines.

With Americans being so large, it is easy to become tolerant and accepting of the new American.  The wider and beefier breed will soon become the status quo, and that is a major disservice to the future of this country.  Yes, you can be healthy at a larger size, but it is safe to say that majority of the population is not healthy at an extremely high BMI with fat percentages well over suggested levels.

I disagree completely with the statements made by most of the people in this article.  So many people say they cannot help their size, but they will be irresponsible when it comes to meals.  Also, why is it that Americans are becoming heavier?  The article cites some disturbing statistics about the levels of obesity rampant in the country.  The body does not produce fat out of nothing, and I believe that is something we must acknowledge.

With that being written, I do not believe we should bar the overweight from receiving medical assistance.  Do we prevent smokers from receiving chemotherapy or other medical procedures due to their smoking?  Do we oppose alcoholics receiving treatment for cirrhosis that has ravaged their livers?  No, and to do that to an overweight person, battling what may be a food addiction, is immoral and definitely wrong.

But don’t lie to yourself.  I was so much larger because of my decisions.  I saw myself binging on chicken wings and cheap beer.  I don’t have a glandular problem (I think); I’m not big boned.  Most are not fat because they must be fat, it is because you have chosen to be fat – on some level.  Smokers aren’t naturally inclined to be smokers; they choose to smoke. I think we need to stop tip-toeing around that fact.

Here now is my favorite NYC Subway Ads against obesity:

Of course, here’s the opposition:

Ah, it’s good to be an American, but must we be fat Americans?  The answer is no.

JJRC

Where the Wild Things Are

Where the Wild Things Are is a beloved children’s classic story of a young boy and his vivid imagination.  The story is quite short and can be summed up a few words.  A young boy wearing a wolf suit torments his mother and is sent to his room without supper.  He then transforms his room into a forest, finds a boat and sails to an island.  There he comes king of the Wild Things.  Ultimately, the boy becomes homesick and travels back to his home, abdicating the throne and finding supper still warm waiting in this room.

The movie is a darker and more true to life depiction of the actions.  The boy is named Max and has a complete and complicated family.  His father is assumed dead (or deadbeat  - who knows).  His mother is trying to make ends meet and appears to be a consultant.  She also dates.  His sister is an adolescent which is problematic because she is trying to keep up appearances.  When her friends trash her brother’s igloo, she simply lets them and they drive off together towards whatever teens do these days.

Unlike the book, Max runs away from home and actually finds a boat instead of making it up.  I feel this takes away from the story of a child’s imagination. An adult would be very aware that this is simply make-belief, but a child would probably not be easily sold on the idea – perhaps that’s not really the point.  Max is not as confident or as carefree as in the book.  The monsters each have deep-rooted psychological defects – schizophrenia, depression, bipolar disorder.  They also suffer from intolerance, compassion, feelings of inadequacy, fits of rage, and the list goes on and on.  Of course, this wouldn’t be evident to a child.

All in all, it doesn’t come out as a children’s movie.  It’s more for adults to wish to see the book come to life in a real way.  I feel adults who asked questions (such as how come?, why? and what?) will feel a connection with this movie.  If you’re looking for a movie that is an overall good children’s movie – this might miss the mark.  It seems to cater most to people who have grown up with the book or grown up at all.

I’m not sure if I like this movie.  The reviews from the New York Times and New York Metro were glowing, but I felt a little saddened by the characters and their lives and slightly disturbed by the violence, anger and raw emotions displayed on screen.  At one point, Carol rips Douglas’ arm off and sand poured out.  He replaces it with a branch.  Though funny at times, it is only funny at times.  Most of the time, you’re watching a real life play out.  You feel so many emotions when you watch this movie.

JJRC

The Worker’s Dilemma

For whatever reason, the pressure is too much this week.  Though I usually glide through the day with ease, today is different.  The ease of the mornings, hellos, and mindless chatter is replaced with a cumbersome feeling of inadequacy.  It is the return of that guy. I am my own worst enemy on these days.  I sabotage myself continuously and idle in a corner without any desire to work.  My hand listlessly rests on the mouse. I periodically shift and click on useless icons, but it’s all smoke and mirrors.  These actions produce nothing of value; thus, I produce nothing of value.  I am not worth one icon on my desktop on these days.

In this mood, I am completely and utterly worthless.  Though my check will not be docked for poor performance and my excuses surely staved off any real threat of retribution from the organization, I do not deserve my whole compensation.  I deserve a mere fraction of that amount since I spend most of my time at my cubicle sitting and dreaming of days, sweet and long past and of futures that have not and may not transpire.

My brain writhes with the constant torture of endless boredom.  I cringe at the very appearance of email on my screen. These are more than something to click.  It is not that it pains me to read it.  What pains me is understanding its requests.  I regularly read emails and immediately forget and disregard their content.  This allows me more time to do what I do best, counting the strands on the fabric over my cubicle walls.  The intense look that covers my face is a mere façade that obscures the true  nature of my thoughts – thoughts of escape, love and happiness not of spreadsheets, copiers and inadequate coffee makers that fail to produce even one pot of decent coffee.

The walls behind my cubicle prison are painted a sunny yellow, but they do nothing but remind me of a cool spring breeze and the hideous reality of my life.  I yearn to be outside of these four tiny walls.  I yearn to use my brain for the betterment of humanity.  Instead, I use my neurons, impulses and other biological processes as a means to enslave myself in an office… continuously toiling.  I am like a cheap hooker trapped under the ghastly glow of a humming incandescent light bulb…. forced to sell my talents in plain sight for all to see my shame.  The color the light bulb emits is yellow and makes everyone appear sickly and tired, or perhaps it frees the torment hidden by make-up, smiles and happy, false demeanors.  It may be a revealer of true natures.

As 5 o’clock approaches, I can shrug my weighted shoulders and leave to enjoy the few delicious hours that remain the day.  Soon, the five o’clock hour will have my stepping out into a dark world.  The sun will soon be a distant memory that was replaced by a humming bulb.

JJRC

Publicly Private

I think it’s always weird when people do something they are not supposed to because they will not get caught.  I’ve done a few things myself that fall under that category, but of course, this is not about me and how many random things I might have tea-bagged.  This is about work.

I remember once there was an Italian boy we used to hang around with during the summer at Cornell before freshman year.  We would sit in the computer labs and argue over who was better, Arts and Science or Engineering (the other Cornell colleges obviously didn’t compare to these two).  This Italian kid was not in our class.  He was a student studying abroad for the summer.  His name was Marco.  One day, I sat at the lab and opened Internet Explorer.  For some reason, the history page was opened and my friend at the time leaned over and checked it out.  Oddly enough, there were tons of Italian language porn sites.  We checked her computer, and it had more of the same… Oh, Marco.

Oddly enough, the same thing has happened today – eight years later.  Marco is probably off somewhere thinking no one knows about his foray into exhibitionism, but several of the members of the Class of 2006 will never forget.  I was on our company laptop today.  It’s a clunky older HP.  My boss’ laptop recently died, and I was tasked with setting her up with this HP.  For whatever reason, I’m considered the top tier expert in this type of work.  This means that everyone in the office admits that they know less about computers and networks than I do, and I know precious little.

I begin to work on the laptop and find explorer, like so many years ago.  I was going to search for a specific website.  One that started with www.b.  I didn’t get far enough to continue punching my website because the suggestion “Bookmarks for Porn” came up.

You can imagine my shock since I am at work. I am also in my boss’ office while she was out – so I take the liberty to investigate.  Turns out someone had taken the laptop home one lonely summer evening a few months back and done. It was pretty interesting stuff like MILF Hunter, Bangbus, and (my favorite) Hop on me and Peddle Balls!!!!! (Exclamation points included).  There was also something beginning with a “b” which I didn’t explore since I am at work (though trust, I’m really dying to find out).

This just goes to show you – you never really know someone.  Thinking about Marco and Fred, I am starting to think, I can never really use a public or private computer again.  Basically, at one point or another, most computers will becomes a vehicle for pornography and other deviant activity and nothing is sacred – not the computers in Clara Dickson or the laptops at your job.

JJRC

An Open Letter

Dear Irish Sir,

You may not remember me from nine months ago.  I am JJRC.  I was hanging out with the hot Hispanic chick  (HHC) and her friend.  The HHC was hooking up with your buddy while I and her friend spoke to you.  I would like to apologize to you for the following things I did.

I did not mean to emasculate you by making fun of you “European” bag.  I’m sure you’re well aware that men do not regularly wear purses in the States.  It was very close minded of me to call you a “ninny.”  If it’s any consolation, I was incredibly drunk.

I would also like to apologize for continuously bringing up your purse while we were sitting at the bar.  With that being said, I regret telling you how a man should carry his things, in his pockets.  I told you where I kept my wallet (right pocket), my keys and phone (left pocket), and my iPod Touch (inner coat pocket) while I drunkenly waddled around the bar.

It is through this display of American stupidity that you were able to steal my iPod Touch out of that very pocket.  This was the iPod Touch I received from my parents as a Christmas gift five days earlier.  I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I enjoyed it those five glorious days.

For that, I would like to thank you, Irish Sir.  You taught me a valuable lesson.  Never taunt a dickhead who is less drunk than yourself and who is too chickenshit to  stand up for himself and his purse.  He will most likely steal from you while you’re not paying attention regardless of his nationality.

JJRC

Housesitting

I’ve been housesitting for some days now, and I cannot put my finger on what is causing my uneasiness.  I just returned from walking the dog, and the house seemed cold and strange.  Granted, the windows are opened, and this is a foreign house to me, but there is something more.  The feeling is so unnerving that I am leaving in a few to go to my house for a few hours.  I’ve been doing that for three days now, and each time, I have to build up my strength to carry myself out the door.  That very feeling of dread is pushing me to write this now.

I’ve never done this before, so I am sure I am blowing this out of proportion, but I have the ever-growing sense of not being alone. As I sit on this couch and type out these words, I feel there is someone around the corner – sitting, waiting.   Entering the apartment makes me actually despair.  It’s a deep bottomless feeling of falling.

I don’t take showers or sleep past 7am here while in this house (usually can’t sleep until around 1am).  I wake up immediately in the mornings.  I never slowly break out of my slumber.  I sit up and search for the dog, who needs to be walked and medicated (long story), but after that, I feel unwelcomed and distinctly separate from the apartment.  I do not belong here, and it lets me know it.

Hopefully, when my co-worker comes back, I can let her know that her apartment has a mind of its own and is creepy, and that her neighbors are extremely pleasant.  I’ve locked myself out twice while here… I guess I leave the keys behind in my need to escape.  I will also tell her that the dog does not like to walk anywhere beyond a 2 block radius of the apartment and has an affinity for crapping on their carpets in the living room (this was no fault of my own – she is literally avoiding pooping outside – no matter how frequently I walk her).

I can’t wait to get out of here.

JJRC

If you’re commuting, please be healthy

I wrote this two hours ago on my iPod as I sat on a stalled 1 train. If it wasn’t for my iPod, I may have gone insane.  Here we go:

“I am writing this from a hot train. It was crowded about 30 minutes ago. That was 9:09. Since then, two things have happened:

1. A passenger has gotten sick.
2. We have been waiting for the EMS.

We are at the 59th street stop of the 1train. What really confuses me is that there is a hospital less then 4 blocks away.

The passengers are slowly filing out. I am in it for the long haul. I have a large piece of luggage with me. It would be the only day I have heavy things with me that this would happen.  I might need to transfer….

The conductor keeps repeating the announcement that we are waiting for the EMS. I really hope that ill passenger did not have a fatal condition because they are probably dead by now. As of this writing, the train has been in the station for 40 minutes. It appears that the EMS arrived around 9:55. Which Is more than 10 minutes per block. I am now waiting for the E train. Wish me luck.

JJRC

Sent from my iPod”

JJRC

First Day on the Hill

We had no idea where Ithaca was when I applied to Cornell, but I was ready for my trek on August 24, 2002.  I was an entering freshman for the Class of 2006.

We piled into the family taxi (my mom, sister, father and I were crammed into the car with my crap).  We pulled out at of NYC for Ithaca at 6:30AM.  My father has a thing for being early (or so we thought).  As we ride up, we begin to listen to Peruvian music and singing.  Eventually, everyone but my father takes a round of naps.  We arrive on campus four hours later.  It was amazing to get on campus with the multitude of other freshmen.  I felt one with my the class.  We pull up to Mary Donlon Hall where I would be living (back then it was a total dump).  My father parks next to the building and pops the trunk.

Dad: Alright – we’re here!

Me: Great! Why are you opening the trunk? I can’t move in until 1pm.

Dad: Oh, I have to go back to the city to get to work.

Mom: What? I thought you were going to help us move him in.  We can’t possibly carry all this stuff.

Dad: Nope, I have to go. I’ll help you unload.

Within 15 minutes, my father had unloaded all the stuff in the car, left it on the lawn, said goodbye to me, and left me, my mother, and sister on the side of the road with all my freshman crap (Mini-fridge, clothing, computer with monitor, among other random appliances).  With my mom and my sister sitting there, I let them know that I have to go to certain buildings to sign papers, get my id and get into some gym classes. It takes about an hour.

When I return, I talk to my mother and sister for a bit, and then a girl (an OL) walks over with a large smile on her face.

Girl: Are y’all moving in today?!

Mom: Yes, but we have a 1pm move-in time.

Girl: Oh! We’ve been moving in y’all for an hour and half now! C’mon over!

In essence, that meant my father could have just unloaded all the stuff into my room.

We slowly collect our crap and wander into the dorm.  My freshman year roommate had already moved in and made himself comfortable. I was lucky that he chose the correct side of the room.  I had wanted the left side.  He was a tallish quiet dude with a two siblings and his parents. As his sister gave my sister dirty looks, his parents were questioning me about how I felt and if I was happy.  They stood there and looked at us, half sorry.  I suppose they thought I did not have a father. What they didn’t know was that my father was probably somewhere in New Jersey in a yellow taxi by that point.

My roommate’s mother hugged me and then forced me to take a picture with her son.  I was all smiles for the pictures, but I all really just wanted to move in and get my mother and sister on their way so I could nap.  They walked out so we could have some time to prepare my side of the room.

As we unpack, my mother begins to do her traditional “This would go lovely there…” and “Where should I put this? It doesn’t look cute here!”  Around 2:30, I checked my watch.  I had a pamphlet that stated that the next bus for New York City would leave in ten minutes.

Me: Alright mom, this was great, but I think you should go.

Mom: Don’t you want me to make your bed?

Me: No, if you miss this bus, you’ll have to wait until 5:00 and you’ll get home at 9:40.  It’s much too late.

Mom: I don’t mind!

Sister: I do! Let’s go!

We finally leave my room after three hours of unpacking and wander over to West Campus.  Since the freshman campus was teeming with people, the buses were only leaving from West.  As we approach Libe Slope, I see the bus, and the clock tower is dangerously close to 2:40.

Mom: Oh, it’s the bus! JJRC, you should run down there and grab it!

Me: Why don’t you run?

Mom: Because I’m your mother.

As I ran down the Slope at full speed, the weather became incredibly warm – as if all of a sudden.  I reached the bus and flagged the driver.

Me: Is this the 2:40 to NYC?

Driver: It’s the 2:50 now (I wanted to cry), but yes, it’s an express to New York.

My mother and sister sauntered down toward me.  They said good bye and waved as the climbed aboard.  I watched the bus pull off, and I knew two things.  I would miss them, and I was free.

For my sophomore year, my father waited in the car while my mother put the finishing touches on everything.  She made it perfectly clear that he is never to leave her like that again.

JJRC