Posts by Jonah

I decided tonight. I can’t go to law school. I don’t have it in my heart.
I mean, I probably wouldn’t mind it, I might even enjoy it. But it’s not
what’s burning inside of me.

It’s too practical for one thing. Dad asked how I was going to put food on
the table when I came home late tonight if I didn’t do something practical.
“I don’t care about that,” I said, “I don’t care if I don’t eat. I don’t
care if I don’t have any posessions. Do you understand?” He said, yes, he
understood. He used to be like that. Then he got a family.

I have to study truth. I have to pursue the good. I have to learn. I have
to find wisdom. I have to search for the answers.

Tonight, I had Medieval Literature with Dr. Allums. Afterward, he and Paul
and this guy named Greg and this fifty year old grandmother named Adele and I
all went out to Waffle House for coffee and discussion. I love being with
people who think. I love to ask something and not have the other person give
an unconcerned “I don’t know.” I love the chase, the pursuit of truth.

When we were getting up to leave, I turned to Allums and asked, “Will we find
the answers?” Paul spoke up, “It’s not about getting to the answer. It’s
about the questions. It’s the journey.”

As I thought about that on the way home, I realized that I couldn’t go to law
school.

Instead, I want to go to the University of Dallas. They have a political
philosophy department.

Unless I can find some place out west…

In other news, we’re going to have the giant head from the Alabama
Shakespeare Festival’s production of Hamlet in our production of The Wizard
of Oz. YES!

Jonah (is way too wired after some chocolate covered coffee beans, three cups
of coffee, two syrup covered pecan waffles, a couple games of Quake up in the
computer lab with Nathan and Mark, and some intellectual discussion at Waffle
House)

Insult to injury. That’s what it is.

I was talking to someone else when Stephen came into God and Suffering class
yesterday morning and sat on the other side of me. When I finally paid
attention to him, he was busily drawing a chart on a piece of notebook paper.
“This,” he said, looking up, “is proof of the conspiracy that they’re out to
get me.” I raised my eyebrows. “My favorite shirt is missing,” he pointed
to where he had written “shirt.” A line led upward to a question mark.
“It’s been missing for two weeks. I don’t know who took it.”

He lifted his finger for emphasis and pointed to the next item, “white van.”
“I was planning on arriving early this morning in time to eat breakfast
before class. But I got stuck behind a white van, and so now I’m hungry and
will remain so until after I’m through with classes. Who drives white vans?”
his finger led up a line, “The NSA. The NSA drives white vans.”

He paused once more before pointing to the last item, “macarena.” “For the
second time in a year, my radio station has changed. Before it was 92 Zew
that’s now 92 Rock. This time it’s New Rock 107. I woke up this morning and
my radio station is now playing nothing but Macarena. Whose fault is that?”
he asked rhetorically as he traced the line leading from that item upwards.
“The FCC.”

“You see? They’re all out to get me. The NSA, the FCC, and whoever it was
who stole my shirt.” All three were connected to lines that led to the top
of the paper where “Stephen’s misery” was written. “Their mission is my to
make my life,” he insisted, tapping on his chest, “miserable.”

He was right about the Macarena. My alternative station started playing
nothing but the Macarena song for at least 36 hours straight. All half a
dozen versions of it, over and over again, interrupted by a deep-voiced
prerecorded announcer, saying things like, “The family that Macarenas
together stays together. Good clean fun for the whole family to enjoy.” Or
“In the hustle and bustle of today’s modern world, there’s a place that
stands apart from all those confusing stations that play lots of different
songs. Radio Macarena. One world, one station, one great song.” Or, “No
Rock. Alllllll Mac.”

But when I got in my car this evening after class, I turned on the radio to
find a new oldies station on 107.3. Cool 107 or something. They were
playing 12,000 oldies in a row. “Call us and tell us what you want to hear!”
the same announcer said. I wanted to call and demand “I want my alternative
music back!”

I think half of the younger generation in Mobile is pissed off that their
radio station is gone. New Rock 107 was a great station. We already have an
oldies station, a couple in fact.

At least the new station has “oldies” sounding identification bumpers.
Although some of it still has that stupid fast dance drum stuff that doesn’t
sound the least bit oldieish.

Jonah (drove home screaming to “Born to be Wild”)

In other news, I finally got a telnet program to use through our new internet
provider. The bad news is that I crashed Windows on my brother’s 396.

Insult to injury. That’s what it is. I was talking to someone else when Stephen came into God and Suffering class yesterday morning and sat on the other side of me. When I finally paid attention to him, he was busily drawing a chart on a piece of notebook paper. “This,” he said, looking up, “is proof of the conspiracy that they’re out to get me.” I raised my eyebrows. “My favorite shirt is missing,” he pointed to where he had written “shirt.” A line led upward to a question mark. “It’s been missing for two weeks. I don’t know who took it.”

He lifted his finger for emphasis and pointed to the next item, “white van.” “I was planning on arriving early this morning in time to eat breakfast before class. But I got stuck behind a white van, and so now I’m hungry and will remain so until after I’m through with classes. Who drives white vans?” his finger led up a line, “The NSA. The NSA drives white vans.”

He paused once more before pointing to the last item, “macarena.” “For the second time in a year, my radio station has changed. Before it was 92 Zew that’s now 92 Rock. This time it’s New Rock 107. I woke up this morning and my radio station is now playing nothing but Macarena. Whose fault is that?” he asked rhetorically as he traced the line leading from that item upwards. “The FCC.”

“You see? They’re all out to get me. The NSA, the FCC, and whoever it was who stole my shirt.” All three were connected to lines that led to the top of the paper where “Stephen’s misery” was written. “Their mission is my to make my life,” he insisted, tapping on his chest, “miserable.”

He was right about the Macarena. My alternative station started playing nothing but the Macarena song for at least 36 hours straight. All half a dozen versions of it, over and over again, interrupted by a deep-voiced prerecorded announcer, saying things like, “The family that Macarenas together stays together. Good clean fun for the whole family to enjoy.” Or “In the hustle and bustle of today’s modern world, there’s a place that stands apart from all those confusing stations that play lots of different songs. Radio Macarena. One world, one station, one great song.” Or, “No Rock. Alllllll Mac.”

But when I got in my car this evening after class, I turned on the radio to find a new oldies station on 107.3. Cool 107 or something. They were playing 12,000 oldies in a row. “Call us and tell us what you want to hear!” the same announcer said. I wanted to call and demand “I want my alternative music back!”

I think half of the younger generation in Mobile is pissed off that their radio station is gone. New Rock 107 was a great station. We already have an oldies station, a couple in fact.

At least the new station has “oldies” sounding identification bumpers. Although some of it still has that stupid fast dance drum stuff that doesn’t sound the least bit oldieish.

Jonah (drove home screaming to “Born to be Wild”)

In other news, I finally got a telnet program to use through our new internet provider. The bad news is that I crashed Windows on my brother’s 396.

I had pizza last night.

People who know me are usually aware of my eating habits. I became a “health
freak” about three and a half years ago and stopped eating processed foods.
That has sort of disintegrated into just abstaining from foods that come
from McDonalds. I usually don’t eat pizza or icecream unless I make it
myself, except for this summer when I threw my resolutions to the fry vat.
I’m back on my principled diet now, so it was quite odd for me to agree to
get a pizza last night. And then to actually eat it.

Not only did I eat pizza, I hate half of the large pizza we ordered. That’s
a lot of pizza for a 5’6″, 130 lb chick. I think, anyway.

The reason why I ate half of large pizza we were splitting three ways was
because no one else would touch my half. The reason for this is that my
condition for agreeing to ordering a pizza was that it have anchovies and
pineapple on it.

I dunno about the pepperoni side, but my half was great.

Jonah

Well, Steph hit the phone in her room on accident, and it looked
a lot like a phone call, so I hung up. Then the phone didn’t ring.
Steph had asked me earlier if I were online, and I’d said yes. So I
yelled at her to see if she wanted to make a call. I had to yell loudly
because I’m downstairs and she’s upstairs and down the hall. “STEPH?!”

“Oh, Joanna! I’m so sorry!” her panicked voice came from upstairs, “I
didn’t mean to, I promise!”

“I know. Did you want to make a call?”

“Well, yeah?”

“Then go ahead.”

I stupidly told Bishop I’d go to a concert in P’cola this Monday when I
actually have class that night. Duh. I wrote him last night but wanted
to call him to apologize. I had class today till 7:30 and then came
home, ate supper, and then had Bible study with Denise, Steph, and Mom.
By the time that was over, it was 9:45, too late for me to call. Well,
it may not be too late, but I don’t call anyone after 9:30 on principle.
I was expressing my dismay at my scheduling problem this evening. Denise
goes, “I swear, you need to get yourself a watch and a calendar and a
sticky note to put on your FOREHEAD to remind you to look at both of them.”

Now mom is ragging me about feeding and watering my cat. “Did you get
any cat litter?” she asks me. “No, mom, I came straight home for Bible
study.” “Oh.”

Anyway, Denise suggested we get on maf to see if Bishop was on. I
nodded, and she dialed. Then she got on finally and started reading who
was on. “Paul’s on,” she said. I nodded. “And Berckums…”
“Berckums?!” She took too long reading her mail, so I made her move.
“Can you believe it?” she asked my mom, “knocked off the computer.”
“Just think of it,” I said, “as call waiting from the opposite direction.”

Steph is still on the phone, I guess. I’m sure with Nathan. They have
to talk every night, you know. And if I hadn’t let her talk, I’m sure he
would have called. In any case, she probably thinks I’m mad. Which is
fine with me because she’s been upset at me for the past couple of days.
Denise went upstairs and came back down a few minutes ago. “She still on
the phone?” I asked. “Yeah. You mad?” “Nah.”

I don’t know how I’m going to get everything done this semester. I
started the second semester of my junior year about as impassively as
possible. I’ve started my senior year bouncing off the walls. I guess
sleeping all summer helped. It also helps not having class till one
three days a week. That means I’ve been getting a good 9 hours at least
every other day.

I’m building a horse out of cardboard for my Three Dimensional Design
class. The instructor, Bertice, called from the other end of the room
yesterday during class, “Now that’s a horse!” Which means she likes it,
I think. She hasn’t yelled at anyone else’s sculpture. I’ve had to redo
almost every part of it, kind of like erasing, except with a knife and
tape. I redid the legs. Front two yesterday during class and back two
today on my own. It really looks good. I mean, it looks like a horse,
except that it’s way too skinny. I dunno if I’ll change it though. I
mean, I can add more cardboard to the sides and fatten him up, but the
thing about art is that it doesn’t HAVE to be an accurate
representation. I’m not sure what to do about the tail. The tail isn’t
a part of the horse for me. It’s just a bunch of hair at the end of his
butt. But I’m used to real horses, not pictures of them.