the online journal of jordan e.

Flashback
Back on graduation day we not only tossed dangerously pointy caps toward the eyes of old menacing professors, but some of us brought Christiane and Celine to the Fargo bus station to say bon voyage as they headed on their three-week trip to the east coast.

The place was pretty quiet and dirty in the typical bus station way, but Amber and I were in rare form. We proceeded to harass and annoy the waiting crowd by taking pictures, nearly peeing our pants and taking more stupid shots. What follows, then, is...


The Adventure of Rita and Rancid


Upon arrival at the fine bus establishment, Rita and I immediately noted the dull ambiance. We saw the sad people waiting in line exuded melancholy and a destination that read "I'm heading to death camp and/or Minot, North Dakota"; arms and shoulders weighted down by overpacked duffles; and lots of sweat pants.


With no burdening fanny pack strapped to us or line to wait in, our thoughts turned to our stomachs and sudden cravings for gourmet food, which was sure to be found in this bus station. Gadzooks, it wasn't long before Rita discovered hearty quality helpings behind the glass of a vending machine nearby.


Rita experienced instant tuna salad chemistry and I, Rancid, was torn between a roast beef affair and an egg salad rendevous.



However, the improperly stored mayonnaise-based sandwiches betrayed us in a very wicked way. Rita quickly recognized the all too familiar rumbles in her stomach (she frequented such vending machines, White Castles and Oscar Meyer meat plants often) and suggested we find sanctuary in the nearby restrooms. Unfortunately, the powerful dose of salmonella caused us to have impaired judgment in choosing our facilities. What were these blasted symbols and what did they mean?



I sustained no long-term damages regarding the bathroom difficulties, but Rita later needed to locate and man a post to speed the drying process of her underpants (also known as 'grunders'). Luckily, she was able to disguise the dirty deed with her simple, classy style.


Meanwhile, I found a sporty friend who seemed happy to see me.


Now, there are two endings to our adventures. The first is the one you'll hear on the streets: Christiane and Celine boarded their bus, we tearfully waved our goodbyes and drove back to Moorhead. The truth (honest truth), however, is not as nostalgic. In the midst of our irritating antics, Amber managed to sit on a man's grocery bag of snacks for his big travels. We heard the distinct crunch of Fritos under her bum and felt the disgusted glare of the man to whom those Fritos belonged. We decided that sitting on other people's food was a sign we'd accomplished enough for the evening. We caught a shot of the one and only damaged bag of goods later, as seen here behind Carlos:

posted by Jordan @ 2:16 em

Things are fine in San Fran
Have I found work yet? No.
Are there any promising leads in the working field here? No.
Have I been hit on by a homeless man wearing a top hat? Yes.

Being in this situation has been stressing me out. I had a migraine for the past few days, which finally broke through a relieving barf attack. Despite all the pressure and disappointments, though, there have definitely been some swell parts of being here.
Just last Saturday, in fact, I went with Terry's friend, Frank, to a free outdoor concert on Pier 31 in San Francisco. Perched on the edge of the bay, 300,000 people grabbed blankets, lawn chairs and funnel cakes to watch three bands: The Randolf (Something or Other) Band, The Waifs, and San Francisco natives: Train. As "Meet Virginia" came floating out of amps and mouths of sing-a-longers, I looked over and saw the Bay Bridge stretching over us, a bay filled with sail boats, the lights of Oakland in the distance and couldn't help but think, "Ooowee. This is overwhelmingly pretty." Then I turned to Frank whose funnel cake had blown powdered sugar all over himself and everyone in his vicinity and who was claiming this look was part of his crack junkie life.
I also traveled on bus, subway and by foot to San Bruno to visit a Vineyard church there, which was refreshing and Vineyardly funky. Later, some neighbors brought me to Shrek 2 and over for supper.
Those kind of moments get me through sort of otherwise lonely and seemingly pointless time. I don't know why I'm here and really don't think I should be, but I appreciate getting to know people here and learning what life in San Francisco means from the inside.

posted by Jordan @ 1:24 em

My Nasty Hoof

Almost exactly two years ago, this time, my left foot was healed. Yes, after eight months of oozing cysts, perpetual antibiotic prescriptions and piles of slimy bandages, my foot looked remotely normal again (and just in time for flip flop season).
You see, in September of 2001 I was in a friend's dorm room watching a movie. As I shuffled out to leave, I managed to step on an unsuspecting toothpick that was hunkered down in the luxurious shag carpeting. There was immediate pain, but the only thing to show for it was a small dot of blood on the bottom of my foot. The next morning, however, I awoke to an enormous elephantitis-struck foot, complete with blood poisoning traveling up my ankle. My faithful roomie, Meagan, toted me to the emergency room where they cut it open, dug around, injected iodine and stiched it up. I was sent home with antibiotics and crutches.
But as the year progressed, my hoof took a dive off the deep end, becoming a cyst farm and general area of disgust. Looking for any piece of toothpick, doctors cut it open about three more times, stiched it each time and gave it ointments and more pills to try to subdue those guerilla pus knobs.
Well, there finally came a point when my parents started to fear amputation and I started to fear having to wear high-tops to the beach. So when the school year ended I was sent to a surgeon who cut open my foot from the top. When I woke from the anesthesia, voila, he had extracted an inch-long piece of toothpick that was nearly poking itself out of the top of my foot. It had strep on it and I demanded to have it in a small jar.

posted by Jordan @ 11:19 fm

Weekend Observations
Bay to Breakers
Dan took part in this year's Bay to Breakers race, a 7.46 mile run on the streets of downtown San Francisco. About 80,000 peopole run the thing every year, which is a pretty big deal. An even bigger deal, though, is the fact that about 70,000 of that bunch are either naked, dressed in Elvis suits or pulling kegs of beer along with them and using beer bongs to suck them dry. Dan wore a conservative pair of running shorts and a t-shirt this year, but he did pass a woman who had her clothes painted on as well as a group of men pushing a grill and cooking up some brats.

The Funniest Thing I've Heard Behind a Closed Door
As I was in my bedroom the other morning, Terry came downstairs to put leashes on the dogs. Rather than hearing just the customary jingle of collars and the click of dog claws on tile, I heard a voice (namely Terry L. Johnson's) softly singing a tune. In the style and melody of Patsy Cline's "Walkin' After Midnight," Terry sang: "You're going walkies with your daddy, out on the sidewalk..." It trailed off after that, but the bit I heard was a sweet, sweet snippet.

Dogville
The three of us went to the movie Dogville last night. While Terry and Dan slept periodically throughout the show, I remained wide-eyed and awake, soaking in a very interesting movie with a very interesting set and story. The story is strange, but deep and I highly recommend it.

Job
As far as you all know, I've been hanging my head in shame as this job search has proven to be unproductive. Gratefully, things began looking up this weekend. It turns out that Terry and Dan have a neighbor who works with a graphic design company and, after meeting with me yesterday and going over my portfolio, has offered to let me take part in a two day per week internship at the business. And I feel like I'll be gaining a lot of valuable skill and experience even in just these small hours. The poop part is that my time there will be unpaid. Luckily, clever Uncle Terry has called up another one of his connections to fill the rest of my week with a job that is of the paying sort. So, let's just say you can call me mademoiselle because oui, I will most likely be the concierge at a retirement home.

Play
Saturday night brought me and Shane (a guy who used to work for Dan) to the play A Mother in San Francisco's Geary Theater. The sold-out performance was quite good if I can say so myself (being about the greedy, selfish, self-destructing demise of a Russian family and their business). The wowser of the whole deal was that the star of the show, the mother "Vassa," was played by Olympia Dukakis. The last time I went to a play, it was in the floodlands of Moorhead and the star was a guy from my social dance class.

Trading Spaces On a Big Budget
There's a certain high school in San Francisco filled with a certain population of students that are clearly rich. And every year this wealthy school holds a fundraiser to raise money for their polo club or 11th grade nuclear science lab, or something. Now we're not talking VFW raffle tickets or a bake sale here. What this school does is choose a house (this year's house was the old British consulate) in the affluent neighborhood of Pacific Heights (where Robin Williams, Nicolas Cage and Carlos Santana live), assign interior designers to every room and then charge the public mucho bucks to tour the place. Because Terry has connections everywhere (I wouldn't doubt that even the purchase of his underwear can be routed through a connection he has at Macy's), he was hooked up with two complimentary tickets and he and I went.
Me: Wow, look at this room. How did they do that with those fresh flowers? There are pearls strung through the petals!
Tour Guides/Security Forces/Watchdogs wearing Perty Ellis: Please, if you will, don't lay your claws on any objects in the room.
Me: Holy crappers! Is that a real Monet?!?
T/S/W: Yes, is it is. The designer has rented the piece for $16,000. Don't let your stanky breath touch it.
Me: Ah, this little girl's room is sweet with the canopied bed, bird nest theme and doll collection.
T/S/W: And nine closets.
Me: I really like the fabric they chose for these drapes.
T/S/W: Get your rotting flip flops away from them.
The house was obviously fancy-shmancy and I couldn't help but feel a little shabby amidst it all. But I dare say, I took the complimentary chocolate mint at the end of the tour and as I unwrapped the little sweet, I told the last tour guide "toodles" in a most Pacific Heights way.

posted by Jordan @ 11:52 fm

A Note I Found on My Way to Montclair
More than happy to pro-rate. But we payed for the dryer out of pocket (orig. it was Tim and us that shared the cost, now we own it). (An the value of the dryer go to the pro-rating of the place.

Aside from the dryer dilemma, I am discouraged and a bit exhausted of this job search. As time passes and job scouring continues, my standards are lowering. I started out with a plan to find an internship in graphic design and now I am applying to do temp. receptionist work. Tomorrow I'll be begging cashiers for grocery bagging jobs at Safeway.

posted by Jordan @ 1:33 em

California
I arrived in San Francisco last night, thanks to the folks at Midwest Express and their complimentary chocolate chip cookies. Uncle Terry picked me up and toted me back to he and Dan's home near El Centro Ave. where I will be staying for an indefinite period of time. It could be two weeks it could be three months - it all depends on the internship situation.
Today I have the company of their two terriers, Skipper and Corky, who spend their leisure time barking at innocent pedestrians and sniffing each other. I think I'm going to take a break from the online internship search and become a pedestrian myself.

posted by Jordan @ 11:29 fm

Pomp and Circumstance
Last Sunday marked the end of my college career (well, except for this blasted class I'm still taking at MSUM). My family came up for the occasion, gave me some words of wisdom and a pedicure kit (family can be so cruel). They also prepared me for the big march with a little practice and adjustments of my billowed gown and pointy hat. We also had some mean Indian food with my uncle Gary at restaurant called Saffron. Muey rico.
Later, as they sat waiting in the bleachers of Memorial Auditorium, we soon-to-be graduates found our alphabetical places in the halls of Ivers. Once we were correctly lined up, an ironically emotional walk to Memorial occured. You see, in the middle of campus there is an enormous bell tower with walkways underneath it. The brick-lain path is a tempting route to take, but the myth at Concordia warns that anyone who walks underneath will never get married. Strangely enough, people actually stay away from the menacing tunnels. But, one graduation day, all 500/600 of us were sorted into two lines and sent to walk through. Once making out and mourning our unmarried futures, we met a sidewalk lined on both sides with the faculty of Concordia. They, dressed in their own caps and gowns, silently sent us off as we marched down the path toward the ceremony.
The rest of the deal was rather uneventful. I mad it across stage, I didn't trip and I received a diploma in form of a piece of paper that read "Needs Art 234 grade from MSUM."

posted by Jordan @ 4:28 em