Jobs.
Jobs are necessary for money and what not, unless they aren't. I'm spending the summer here in The Roc and thus need a job to pay for rent and food and other fun necessities. Like toilet paper. I had a job all lined up for when I got down here. I was to campaign in an anti-Bush movement. For the Working Families Party, they seem like good enough people. I share many of their beliefs. They wanted me to canvass neighborhoods, rallying support and...asking for money. Sixty dollars they wanted. And they wanted me to pull in $135 daily. I have a hard time asking for money from people, especially strangers. And this manner seemed especially deceitful. We were encouraged to say that its just five dollars a month.
Bah.
Anyway. I went out on the training day. I was an "observer." It was an unpaid day where I started off watching one guy ask people for money, and then graduated to asking by myself. I got no moolah from anyone. And only two signatures. A bit of a let down, but I was assured that on my first day it was cool if you don't pull in any money. That night at the HQ I filled out the necessary paperwork and the director ladies were like, "Great! You'll need to come in tomorrow with a passport or something to finish filling out paperwork so you can get paid. You'll need to make quota in one of the next three days." I thought to myself, "Great! I think I'm gonna quit by Friday."
They didn't even give me the chance. I got a phone call the next day at 11 AM. Didn't make it to the phone in time. They left me a voicemail. "Hi, Krister, this is Cynthia of the Working Families Party. Sometimes our observers don't work out, and we won't be needing you to canvass for us." Awesome. They fired me over voicemail. I wasted an entire evening with them.
I have another job, though. I'm a waiter now at the City Cafe Diner. Its a chain, I hear, and its much like Denny's. A bit better food. Open 24 hours. I work the night shift. From 9 PM to 6 AM five days a week. I've been on two nights and have a little over $90 cash and about $60 salary dollars earned. I'm pleased with those results. Plus, its decent work. I didn't get a proper training, but I'm learning.
Jobs.

Just found This Entry. Looks like I will be shaving my head. This week, too.

Words are handy.
In some ancient cultures the act of naming something was tantamount to creating it. It didn't exist beforehand, and you said "spoon" and suddenly there was this metal thing you use to dig food.
Does anything exist before you name it? How could it? It couldn't exist in your cranium, and therefore couldn't be. But once you apply a name to it, everything fits right in place. Before there was all this junk floating around in your brain. Maybe little images of tires and panels and glass and antennae and seats and engines. But no words. And then you get the word "car" and BAM, all that shit flies together and into a neat little cubby in your brain marked "car." And then there's all these little subdivisions for the engine and the parts and those subdivisions are connected to other major groups of words.
Without words there would be nothing.
How upsetting is it for a person when they can't articulate? Y'ever forget a word? Its so maddening.
So our brains are all rooted in words. Maybe without words we'd have some other system of keeping shit together, but we'll never know as such an idea is so hypothetical and out there and foreign that we can't apply words to it. In fact, applying words to it would destroy it.
Words are cool.

I understand that there may be many readers out there whose parents have AIM or some other chatting program, but as of this day I am the only one in my nuclear family with AIM.
Maybe not for much longer though.
My mom is thinking of getting AIM and thus disrupting my whole online world. She'll have access to my friends and me and even (gasp) this blog!
I wonder if there's anything incriminating in here. Things like "Well, I was fuckin' this chick last night and doing lines of coke off her back..."
Shit. Well, she'll probably wind up reading this at some point. Be one of the only people.
But I can't grasp the concept of Mum using AIM. Can't wrap my brain around it. I should, there's nothing wrong with it and its certainly not out of place in this day and age...but still.
I'll have to censor my away messages and stuff.

The setting: 9:35 PM, Tuesday Night.
Krister has just returned from going to the gym, he's sweaty and wearing his gym shorts, soaked T-shirt and running shoes. He leans over his computer. There's a message. It's from Tristyn. It reads "Hey, we're all going to see Mystic River at Movies 10 at 9:45, you should come, too."
Krister stares in slack jawed awe. Ten minutes to make it to the theater.
He quickly glances through the rest of the messages left on his computer in his absence and grabs his day clothes.
"I'm gonna jump in the shower," he proclaims as he darts for the door.
He strips off his gym clothes and steps into the shower, immediately turning the showerhead on, no testing the water through the bath faucet this time. A surprisingly warm blast hits him, but it quickly turns ice cold. He adjust the temperature and it switches to scalding hot. Finally he gets the temp right and reaches for the shampoo. Flips the top. Squirts a gob.
'Lather, rinse,' he thinks, 'no time for repeat tonight, baby, I've got a date with an angel.'
He dumps some facial wash into his hand and quickly rubs it into his skin. Rinses.
Now the body wash, only hit the essential parts. Quickly rinse.
Shower off, jump out, towel. Deodorize, dress.
He's out of the bathroom.
He stalks into the living room and grabs his wallet and keys, chapstick and phone and he's off again. Slips on clogs.
Checks his clock as the door slams shut.
Out of the house in nine minutes.
He drives between five and ten over all the way to the cinema. Gets there four minutes in line. His friends are still in line.
He joins up with them and walks into the theater. Its still the previews. Haven't missed a second of the show.
"Tonight," he says to no one in particular, "Tonight I am a god."
He shakes some water from his hair.

The End.

Omphaloskepsis is my favorite word.

I've created a new slogan for taxidermists (if they had one before).

Taxidermists: Shoving sand up dead animals' asses so you don't have to

What do you think?

Alright, did some research. Turns out they wandered in the 1100's and the 1200's. Please don't hold it against me. Troubadours are much cooler, though, than I had imagined. My source here is the World Book Encyclopedia, electronic edition. Under the entry "Troubadour" written by Paul B. Diehl.
Troubadours based their lyric verse on the works of Spanish Arab poets and classical Roman poets like Ovid. Who was not a large ovary or egg, it turns out. They often wrote in a language called "Provencal" or "langue d'oc." And one of the song styles they did, the canso d'amor, sang of the perfect attributes of some lady that particular Troubadour was hot for. He sang a lot about her physical attributes and her virtue, and I guess said a lot of things that would make Christians red in the face.
That's kinda neat.

I fixed my iPod. It had been broken, as I dropped it in a certain female's parking lot. It was a weird sort of broken, though, it played music and was completely packed full, but it wouldn't get mounted by my computer.
Tee hee. Mounted.
But I fixed it! All by my lonesome! I'm amazing, I know.
So it works, now. And I renamed it from the lame "Krister Rollins' iPod" to the lame "Troubadour." Troubadour's, of course, were the wandering minstrels of France in the...time period. 1500s? 1400s? I don't know. Wandering minstrels, at any rate. Which means they were portable music, much like the iPod itself. I'm pleased with the connection.

I would like to make so many clones of myself that they collapse into each other and make a black hole. I would then have a KriStar to wield. Plus, being a rip in the space-time continuum has always been a goal of mine, and I think with gravity like that I'd be able to grease the right gears to get the job done. Or maybe it'd just be cool to be a part of the universe that no one will ever forget.
I would like to be a part of history. I guess I am already, technically, but if people could read about me at some point in the future, that would make me happy. Especially if its nice things, a Picasso situation, as opposed to a John Hinkley Jr. situation.