Subday

Not much happening, and I'll prove it right here. The highlight of the day so far was a sighting of Jared. Jared the Subway Geek. I've been going to the Subway in Phoenix, but heard Jared was making an appearance at the Ashland Subway. We decided to give try a new location in hopes of bigger brains and fewer jalapenos. There was a line around the block (for food, not to see the geek). As we tried to leave, a marketing guy from a local radio station intercepted us and offered us each a free low carb wrap if we'd stay. Being the cheap Subway sluts we are, we stuck it out, and I was able to make my point about the serving line to someone with access to real airwaves. I'm hoping for a late night spot on KZZE to get the truth out about Sub-service. I may be speaking too soon, but the employees at the Ashland Subway seemed just a little brighter, seemed to know what "everything but the jalapenos" meant. This time. I was surprised at the numbers of people interested in having their pictures taken with Jared. I think, really, that the only reason there was such a long line was that subs were two for the price of one. Who is Jared anyway? Who cares? This blog entry isn't even interesting because its about him. And you know... The phenomenon of uninteresting people, of ordinary lives, troubles me. I am an uninteresting person with an ordinary life. You wouldn't want to read a book about me (by me, but not about me -- let's be very very clear) you wouldn't want your picture taken with me. I lost eighty pounds and didn't race out to have my picture taken with Dr. Atkins. A very loosely woven comparison, I'll admit, but let's be honest -- in the blog if nowhere else -- had he become a handsome prince after losing 500 pounds or whatever it was, that would be one thing. But that just didn't happen. Jared is still the poster boy for Inadequate Personality Disorder. Oh, who cares. Really.

And this argument extends to literature and other art forms. I won't bring up reality TV. In regards to literature, I call it the "pathetic life" genre. You know the type. Early Oprah books about midgets and despondent women, homely by birth, who never make it to swan-hood. Give me beautiful, give me gifted, exciting, wonderful characters who leap off the page and refuse to leave your imagination, who make you willing to sacrifice the mediocrity of daily life to stay there. Wherever. Just not here. Not now. Not this.

John Kerry wins NH primary. Well, it's encouraging to me that Howard Dean is fading from the scene somewhat. He affects me much like a Jack Russell Terrier. I wonder what would happen if, instead of standing in front of all his campaign volunteers and claiming victory, what if he just said, "Shit. We lost." What if Joementum Leiberman admitted he came in a solid fifth, rather than spinning a three-way tie for third place. Who fights for third place? "No, it was me." "Was not." "Was too...." What a bunch of fucking liars. John Kerry seems nice enough. I don't know him. He can be president if he wants. Anybody but Little Georgie "and the shit catapult that got him there." see www.ashabot.com. Thanks, asha, for the visual.

I am sick of being in a long distance relationship. Have I bitched about this yet? I've been careful to spare my limited readership the annoyances of MY pathetic life. He called tonight, and couldn't find the garlic. I told him it was in the fruit bowl where I left it last weekend. He looked, and there it was. He thanked me for knowing where his garlic is from 300 miles away. It set me off, knowing that. Spun now. I can't do this much longer. I can't know where the fucking garlic is in his house when there is mold on my floor and dogshit on my porch. This is not my life. Be here now or be here later. Here will still be here.