call•me•jonah

It occured to Jonah midstride, halfway to the parking lot, hand on the unlock button, that he used to care so much about everything. Not in a sympathetic "I feel your pain" kind of way. More like every instant was imbued with a weight of uninteligible significance. A weight he bore directly on his scrawny shoulders. A weight which gave purpose and meaning to his introverted suffering, but offered little relief. Never did it offer to buy him ice cream and relax at a theater. Never did it provide answers, for always as he turned round and round it remained elusively on his back.

Significance never makes room for insignificance.

But these terms, are perhaps... retired.

It occured to him, as he sunk into the plush leather seats of the 2006 Acura LS, that he didn't care about anything anymore except laughing. Laughing not at humor, nor at irony, but at life itself. For everything, especially those deeply rooted, thick barked, long branched shade trees of purpose, on which he spent his youth swinging idly in epileptic fits of logical reasoning, wrestling privately with eternal truths, now seemed shaded with as many layers of absurdity as the absurdities it sought to revile. And this leveling of the playing field, this great misconception, if indeed it is a misconception, turns each tragedy into uprourious comedy. As the curtain pulls back it reveals each player as a clown unaware of his bright smile and shiny red nose. Unaware of his clumsiness and absurdity.

It is perhaps because he had reached absurd limits of seriousness, that he now finds himself in a wake of frivility. Having hotglued a cutout black-felt meanginfulness to everything he engaged, his church, his tennis shoes, his computer, his school, his books, his friends, his leisure, his food, his music, every footstep, every choice, this path or that path, each bite, each word, was either pointing in the right direction or the wrong direction. Everything was utterly and inescapably important. But without guidance and with wavering confidence, it was inevitable that this tower of significance would tumble. It is understandable that in it's wake, in the rubble and broken shards of past-meaning, now mixed homogenously with past-unmeaning, is awakened a fresh nihilism. A nihilism born not of rebellion nor apathy nor logic, but of a failed search for purpose. A search that reached towering proportions and imploded on its own absurdity.

Jonah has become an accidental nihilist. He is certain of the ultimate defeat of nihilism, if he ever finds the impetus to raise his sword against it. Nihilism he considers to be a purgatory, a gateway between the past life and the future life. The past life his withered, the future life has yet to be born, and so for now Jonah floats in an heterogenous compound of belief and unbelief, reason and unreason, and a will to imbue everything with emptyness.

If Jonah would stop smiling, nihilism would scare him. But his eggs are fried. And for now he's enjoying breakfast at a pitstop on the road to wherever.

At the semi-mature age of 22 Jonah purchased his first pair of woman's jeans. He is a size 6. Many girls around the world would envy him for that. He brought his female friend the rogue typographer with him, hoping that people would think that he was shopping with her. Once at Old Navy, however, he soon realized that he cared much less about what people would think than he had feared. He found the perfect pair on the sales table. Skinny ultra-low-rise black jeans perfect for hip girls, emo boys, and Jonah.
Now before you begin to judge Jonah for shopping on the wrong side of the aisle or for copying cryface emo trendies. Consider that it's not his fault that he was born with toothpicks in the place of legs. Nor is it his fault that men's jeans (except perhaps those sold at exorbitant prices at express mens) are tailored for lumber jack legs. Jonah prefers to harken back to predecessors like Andy Warhol, Ewan Mcgregor in Trainspotting, old westerns, and Zak Kyes (who have all been known to sport skin tight black jeans). Screw those emo kids.
He believes he has felt a warm reception into the art world since donning the black skintights. He believes they were integral to his 30 minute conversation with the violinist from The Album Leaf, and to Brian from Art Prostitute actually looking him in the eye when he shook his hand. Perhaps they even had a place in shy Shannon sitting beside him on the couch and talking about cars at the Red Bull art of the can exhibition. He, however, refuses to attribute his recent addiction to Mario Kart Double Dash to his new leggings, siting that his addiction occured slightly before he had acquired said leggings.

Ooo you gotta watch this. One of the girls graduated from TCU. Unfortunately she seems like a complete moron. Or at least a partial moron. Also it's interesting to hear a Texan accent coming from behind a burka.

Loose Change 2nd Edition - Korey Rowe / Dylan Avery / Jason Bermas Jonah thinks this is scary. But is it true? In case you're scared witless go to: debunking911.com

jonah is becoming a dangerous shopper. dangerous not to the institutions that prey on him, nor to the shopgirls who carelessly flirt with him or the salesmen who flatter him, he is becoming dangerous to his wallet. let me explain. jonah has, for the past few weeks been lazily searching for that pair of shoes that is at once comfortable and cool, drawing glimpses without knowing why. a sly pair of shoes perfect with a pair of slacks. those shoes that you could wear to an interview, to work, to the cinema, but not to the court and maybe not to a wedding (then again maybe to wedding).
but twice now he has left the shoe store holding the wrong pair of shoes. the pair of shoes that had been sold to him by those oh so crafty and kind-voiced salespeople. the first pair he was able to return, having only worn them once and kept them in immaculate condition. the second pair, the three shades of blue pair he's wearing right now. the ones that look like a 1980s ski jacket with sprint shoe soles. the ones that look much more ordinary than the ones he wanted.
but, they were on sale after all. half off. and the girls had been so nice. they were pretty and didn't complain at all when he asked try on so many different shoes. to top it off it was after hours. he happened to walk in after closing hours, but before they had locked the doors. they didn't seem to mind. but all those factors were running through his mind as he looked down at the shoes (the ones almost just right, but not quite, the ones he didn't need) and up at the pretty smiling blonde so eager to help, and down again trying to add up the numbers. she laughed, "those look good on you."
he smiled. "can't beat the price." wiggling his toes.
in the end, there was really no way out but to buy them. even though the ones he really wanted were sitting there a half size too small. he couldn't break the hearts of all those pretty girls could he?
but he didn't really want them. in fact he feels a little like he's betraying his beloved sambas by wearing them. but like i said he didn't have an option. that's why he's wearing them now. as a memorial. a reminder to never buy shoes on sale. to never try on shoes that you don't want to buy. to never walk into a store after closing time. and to never ever ever ever ever let a pretty shopgirl give you complements.