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English? Whataya Gonna Do With That? PART II [Sep. 4th, 2006|09:06 pm]
[mood |mellowmellow]
[music |Al Green]

About 3 years ago I went to the Wendy’s in Boardman, Ohio while on break (Winter? Spring? Summer?) from college. I had on an Akron sweatshirt, a nice blue and yellow one, and the guy behind the counter pointed at it and said, “Hey, Akron! I graduated from there!”

Read it again if you didn’t catch it.

The guy BEHIND THE COUNTER (as in, working there, filling up the frosty machine, asking to take your order).

Saying he GRADUATED from the college I’m attending.

If you’re still slow (and that’s okay, too many episodes of Next will do that to you), let me explain the moral of this modern-day Aesop’s fable: Degree = Frosty Maker.

Degree = Is this for the dining room?

Degree = $5.95, sir, please pay at the first window.

So what did I learn during four years of college? Wasn’t I supposed to answer that? Well, fuck it. Tomorrow I’ll be applying to about ten shitty jobs, jobs a teenager could get, hoping to flip the bills (but not the burgers, I will not be applying to Wendy’s) for a year until I enter grad school. And what I learned in Dr. Kunze’s Earth Science class is, as I prophesized so long ago, completely worthless (unless, of course, I find myself on a game show, and the question is: Which celebrity does Dr. Kunze, of the University of Akron, most resemble? The answer is George Carlin (Yes, that’s all I’ve taken from the class).).

Now, I’ll also be applying to newspapers, hoping I can get paid for some small free-lancing, and from there, perhaps something bigger. And yes, I’m not going to be working at this place forever, just a year before I go to grad school and get a master’s.

So there you have it. Degree = A piece of paper.

Degree = Ability to get a higher degree.

Degree = Listing yourself as an ‘Alum’ on facebook.

Degree = Not even being able to pick it up until October, when you’ll probably forget the slip of paper they gave you for free parking, park illegally, get a ticket, forget to pay the ticket, get the boot, not have enough money to get the boot off, request more hours at Dave Thomas’s fine establishment, where you now work.

. . . I’ve just re-read what I’ve written, and it all sounds pretty negative. So if you haven’t yet clicked the Back button on top of your screen, let me do my best to convince you that I’m not a cynic, and then you can get on with your life:

The truth is, I’m actually pretty excited about this coming year. This will be the first autumn I haven’t attended school since . . . well, let’s see here . . . since Dubya’s father was doing battle with Michael Dukakis (sp?). And that’s a good feeling. I have to get the shitty job, yes, but I should finally have the time, now that I don’t have to worry about proving my thesis statement and memorizing my Charla, to concentrate on writing, and to do so for several hours a day. Also, I’ve made a book list, and begun it, so I can actually read what I want to read and not the (insert name of your least favorite author) that always manages to weasel itself onto syllabi across America every semester. So life’s okay, I guess. Seriously. I’ll let go, right now, of my scattered thoughts on the college institution, and promise not to pick them up again. Well, let me amend that: not until 2010, when, if all goes right, I’ll graduate one row up than I did Sunday, this time with the Master’s boys, and ask myself what I’ll be doing with THAT degree.
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English? Whataya gonna do with that? PART I [Aug. 21st, 2006|08:59 pm]
[mood |contemplativecontemplative]
[music |Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon]

“I learned a lot in college, the very least of it in the classrooms.” – Stephen King, Hearts In Atlantis

I was planning on writing up a groundbreaking, insurgent statement on the college institution—some last-minute bitching before I tote my bachelor-degree self away from this campus once and for all. But as I rub up against the glossy banner that marks the finish line (I don’t graduate for a week, and could conceivably still fail The Works of Stephen King, my final class, but I’m close enough, brother, to say I’ll be gettin’ the diploma), I think I’ll focus on the positives. After all, no one wants to hear my thoughts on the “college institution.” That’s boring shit (and Janice Moliterno didn’t raise no stone-faced dullard), so fuck it. I enjoyed my time here, and despite any ill feelings, I can’t say I regret very much.

So here I am. The old Finish Line. Several people cheering, and one or two even dumped water on my head during the stretch run. Of course, most people in the audience don’t give much of a shit. Oh, and look behind me. Isn’t that the rusted old College Algebra hurdle back there? Talk about shitty. And look at all the kiddies trying to clamber over it this semester. Oh, and that revolting motherfucker Earth Science is back there too, and it’s scheduled at 7:45 am. Fun, fun, fun, as the Beach Boys said.

Okay, so no more race metaphors. You have my promise. Solemn promise, okay? But four fucking years, man. I had to have gathered something substantial, right? After 130 or so credits, if my brain hasn’t developed a few new creases, don’t I get a refund? I’m sure my receipt is here somewhere . . .

Well, back to the quote from Mr. King, which is one of my favorites. How he learned more out of class than in. Yeah, I hear ya Stevey. And while I took away a lot from the more hands-on courses—creative writing classes, media production classes, my acting class—any growth (if there was any, let’s be honest and note my constant and unyielding immaturity) would have been . . . where?

I’m begging the awful and cheesy question of “what I learned” in the past period of my life. Jesus Christ, it’s one step above “What I Did On My Summer Vacation.” So I won’t go there. At least not completely. I see no need to chronicle all my lessons. But, hey. I’m sure different from this time in Oh-Two, and not just in terms of long hair n beard. So what gives?

Well, to start, I never really considered, when I was a freshman, that I’d actually graduate. Not that I figured I’d fail or anything; it’s more like when winter or spring break begins, and you don’t give an ounce of shit of thought to its end, because all you know is you’re on break, and you’re gonna sit on your arse and do nothing for-fucking-ever. So in a way, college was like one giant winter/spring/summer break. I had no concept of time, stayed out late, slacked off in any form of a “job,” and downloaded songs. It’s sad, but I’ve put more thought and time into the organization of my music library than many classes.

So I conclude this with a ‘To Be Continued,’ like in those cheesy TV shows. Firstly, because I’ve rambled on too much already (maybe Janice Moliterno raised a stone-faced dullard after all), and secondly because I need some time to think about what I really did learn these four years. I tell you what, it wasn’t College Fucking Algebra. And while I make no promises in regards to what truths I reveal about myself (like any soul habitually peruses this anyway), I insure you it will not be cheesy, sentimental, etc. In short, the antithesis of whatever dumbo they scheduled to speak at the ceremony on Saturday, who will probably discuss their internships, their fraternity/sorority, their dead family members, the teachers whose dicks they sucked, and the company whose dick they will be sucking for the next thirty years.
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. . . . [Aug. 21st, 2006|08:16 pm]
[music |Crowded House, or some 80s band I'm confusing with them]

Thing That Pisses Me Off # 137:


Words cannot describe my true hatred for these green pieces of shit, but let me try. First off, it's just plant. Taste-less plants that manifest themselves in one of two places: the salad, the sandwich. Regarding the sandwich, I do not want my meat, cheese, and bread interupted but a wet leaf. And regarding the salad: if I wanted a bowl of shrubbery, I'd go in the woods and grab a handful off the bushes.

I know, I know, EVERYONE ELSE eats lettuce Jason, why can't you? You actually just haven't tried it, right? You should try some, really. I know if you had a really good salad, you'd like it. Come on, just try it.

And that brings me to the real reason I hate lettuce: because everyone in this world ASSUMES you like it.

When you're in line at Subway and they ask you what you'd like on your sub, their hand is completely submerged in the lettuce (which is, of course, overflowing). And when I say Nothing, only meat & cheese & condiment belong on a sandwich, they look at me curiously, and keep their hand in the lettuce, because surely, surely, I am lying. Surely I can't NOT WANT lettuce on my sandwich.

And in restauarnts? It's always "What kind of dressing would you like on your salad?" Because it's already superimposed that you want salad. It's just a matter of what dressing you want in your bowl of foliage.

Fuck You, society. I am not an Herbivore.
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Just when you thought . . . [Jul. 5th, 2006|01:41 pm]
[Current Location |my big bad room]
[mood |hothot]
[music |Architecture in Helsinki]

. . . that Akron could not take more money from you . . .

(drum roll, please)

. . . 48 dollars,

and 42 cents,

for a cap and gown. And that's just for an undergraduate. For a master's degree, well, that's about twenty more.

I can see it so clearly:

Pruenza: You know what pisses me off?
Pruenza's Right Hand Man: What's that?
Pruenza: All those kids that are graduating this term are weasling out of the tuition increase this coming year.
Pruenza's Right Hand Man: Those bastards!
Pruenza: I know. Well, how about this: We charge 48 dollars and 42 cents for an undergraduate to get cap and gown and maybe, oh, I don't know, 20 more bucks if you're getting your masters.
Pruenza's Right Hand Man: What if someone is getting a doctorate?
Pruenza: I'd say a Hundred.
Pruenza's Right Hand Man: Genius! But Luis, Youngstown State does not charge for cap and gown.
Pruenza: YSU! AKA You Screwed Up? How about, they screwed up! By not recognizing this great oppurtunity to fuck their students up the asses a little further!
Pruenza's Right Hand Man: Yes sir. Good work, sir.
Pruenza: Now get me some coffee, you little pussy.
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Friday Boredom. [Jun. 16th, 2006|10:58 pm]
[mood |boredbored]
[music |The Zombies - "The Way I Feel Inside"]

I am bombarded.

With stimuli.

I turn on this computer, and everything is in my face. Do you know how threatening the AOL Welcome Screen is? I mean, there is so much shit on it, it seriously scares me. Honest to God. They say ‘Good Evening’ but I’m not sure I believe them.

Videos On Demand.

Get Things Done: Find, Plan, Buy.

Free Checking.


The Daily Catch.


Can’t Find It? AOL A to Z.

Sign In.

Sign Out.

Your Mail.

Your AOL.

Your Music.

Your Money.

If You Have To Rent . . .

See Who Went Out On A Limb!

Take the Test: See How YOU Score!

Make This Your Home Page!

10 Things All Singles Should Do!

Eight Signs Your Date Is Married!

Is YOUR Body Sabotaging YOUR Love Life?

Get Inside The CineVegas Film Fest!

Youngest Hanson gets Married!

To be perfectly honest, Mr. AOL Welcome Screen, I do not care that the youngest Hanson got married. However, I do feel bad that someone out there in this world had to write up the article on the youngest Hanson’s marriage. He probably has his journalism degree too, and his relatives are asking him if he’s writing good news stories, and he has to say, “Well, actually, I wrote this excellent piece on the marriage of Zak Hanson. Zak Hanson, remember him? Oh you don’t? Come on, 1998. Mmmbop not ringing any bells?”

The saddest part is, 15 people posted messages responding to this article. One who says, “He got married as soon as I imagined.” That’s right. Someone put previous thought into when the youngest Hanson might tie the knot.

In conclusion, the Internet sucks.
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Lyrics To That Song Everybody's Been Requesting [Jun. 4th, 2006|02:36 am]
“Oinky-And-Swiss On Rye”
Written by Jason Moliterno
Performed by Elmer P. Doubleday & The Foot Surgeons
Courtesy of Capitol Records

(oink, oink)

(oink, oink)

I was down a-visitin’ a pig sty,
feeling kinda shy, feeling kinda like not saying hi,
but when I saw that Oinky
I said my
oh my
gimme that pig, or brother, I’ll a-die

Oinky, Oinky,
Oinky-And-Swiss On Rye,
Baby you’re gonna be fixin’ me some
Oinky–And-Swiss On Rye

I was out a-buyin’ a loaf of rye,
spent all m’money on Oinky, too poor for pie,
and when I was wishin’ I had a burger’n fry,
I said my,
I ain’t gonna lie,
that Oinky’s a-oinkin’ Petty’s “Learning To Fly.”


Pig sang so good I’d sit there’n sigh,
Stayed in all day, they said hey boy, did you die,
so each day I created a crazy alibi
like drinkin’ some Chai,
watchin’ the movie Pi
or playin’ up a game by myself of some jai-alai


Pig’s a-singin’ songs from nineteen sixty-fi,
when it was Judy’s turn to cry,
and I was thinkin’ again `bout that burger an’ fry,
this skinny guy
gonna die,
then I saw so damn clearly: Oinky-And-Swiss on Rye.


(oink, oink)

(oink, oink, ooooooooink)

I’m a-lookin’ at stars in the sky,
then m’knife gave Oinky a quick goodbye
yeah, the pig gave it the ol’ college try,
but I simply sigh
cause that is why
it’s goodbye empty stomach and hello empty sty.



Copyright 2006
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Ohh fuck. [May. 31st, 2006|03:01 pm]
[mood |thoughtfulthoughtful]
[music |"Blue" - The Jayhawks]

Ohh fuck.

I repeat, Ohh fuck.

Jason Moliterno is now allowing comments to be added to his journal? What has the world come to?

We turn to Jason with his answer:

"Here's the deal, guys. I said to myself: Who am I kidding? Who the fuck do I think I am? Is my journal so precious that no one can comment on it? It's like those people who won't let you see their facebook profile unless you add them as a friend. Do they think their list of Favorite Movies is so damn coveted? So I'm allowing comments. Of course, I don't really advertise this journal, and don't know who the hell ever reads it, but if someone does, then by fuck, you may comment. If you wish."

I need to stop saying Fuck.

Aah, Fuck it.
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(no subject) [May. 30th, 2006|04:44 pm]
[mood |working]
[music |"Pistol-Packing Papa" - Jimmie Rodgers]

You know what phrase I hate?

"Have your cake and eat it too."

Now, I understand that many cakes make a really nice presentation. In fact, you might want to have it on display for a little bit. But, it's food, and you can't preserve it forever. So what's the point of this quote?

I think it should be: "Have your pig and eat it too."

Because unlike cake, a pig can be enjoyed as a pet, especially if it's a clean pig that is allowed to run free in the house and trained to turn its oinks into melody.

So anyway, you see this dilemma: You have a nice pig living with you, let's call him Oinky, and he runs around, and you feel good around him. Just seeing Oinky fills your day with light! And when he oinks "My Girl" it's such a crowd-pleaser . . . But lately you've been looking at Oinky and imagining him as bacon. Or pork. Or ham. Especially ham. Man, wouldn't Oinky just taste delicious? I could go for a little Oinky-And-Swiss on rye . . .

So there's your new quote.

"You see that guy over there? Fuck man, he wants to have his pig and cook into bacon too."

I just quipped a quip, motherfucker.
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(no subject) [Apr. 19th, 2006|11:45 pm]
[Current Location |my non-air-conditioned room]
[mood |blankblank]
[music |"I'm happy Just to Dance With You" by John, Paul, et al]

Recently, to aid me in my short story-writing for class, I bought an anthology of new American short stories. Hey, this is the shit that's getting published, right? I should take a look at what my generation is up to and what corners of the world they've chosen to paint pictures of, and learn how to write my own.

And you know what? As I've been reading, I've noticed that there's a very similar "voice" that all the stories have.

--Now let me explore "voice." Not because it's a difficult concept, but because it needs exploring. Voice is style, right? And personality? And shouldn't each writer have his own voice? It's like DNA, I thought.--

And I'm not saying these stories are bad. They're all well-written, and it's obvious that each author has a certain intelligence, creativity and verbal sensitivity. So why can't I help but think that they're all somehow parodies of each other?

It might seem like I'm rambling, or perhaps incoherent, but if you've read any of these "literary" kind of stories, perhaps you know where I'm coming from. The key word, I think, is "detached." This new voice is detached. It is reporting life from some kind of bullshit post-modern cloud. Adjectives? Nah, too 19th century. Adverbs? Oh, how gooey! We're all nouns and verbs, here, brother. We're teling it like it is. The quick brown fox jumping over the lazy dog? No way. "The fox jumped over the dog." That's how it is now. In fact, do we even need the dog? "The fox jumped." Fuck yes!

And in a way, though, it's good. I mean, adjectives and adverbs are often unnecesary. But I wasn't getting a feel for any of these stories. Oh, and the present tense! Boy, if you write in the present tense, you are cool! It's like, your story is like, taking place in the moment, man. Fuckin' groovy. (right this moment, I am working on two short stories of my own, both written in the present tense)

Where was I?

Oh yeah, Australia.

Alright, I'm rambling today, and not making any sense. But here's what I've concluded: reading stories by other published authors is not going to give me the magic formula of how to write my own.

The best advice is still that of the 16th century Brit Sir Philip Sidney:

" 'Fool,' said my Muse to me, 'look in thy heart, and write.'"
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(no subject) [Feb. 27th, 2006|02:29 pm]
[mood |deviousdevious]
[music |Elton John's "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road"]

You know what pisses me off? Red lights.

The other day I'm driving-- W. Market St., for those of you who insist on details-- and what comes on the radio but Journey's Don't Stop Believin.

Now, you might ask, was I believin' at that current moment? I can't quite remember, but if I was, well . . . I definitely wasn't going to stop. I mean, when Steve Perry offers advice, I listen up.

Ok, so you got your midnight train, it's going anywhere. You got your small-town girl, living in a lonely world, blah blah blah. Fast forward to the part where they actually say the words Don't Stop Believin.

I know what you're thinking. BEST PART OF THE SONG.

Yeah, totally. I hear ya, man.

But, as you might have guessed, this is where I get hit with the red light. What the fuck? I'm trying to "hold on to that feeling" and THE MAN tells me I gotta stop for his little traffic light? Fuck that.

It was a dark day, my friends. A cloud flew over my world. I stopped believing.

Don't these people know that when your hear Journey in your car you need to be in motion? Bastards . . .

Anyway, moral of the story? Run red lights.


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