Elleresque Podcast

Hello, people. It is I, Jordan Eller. I’m having my buddy here publish this bulletin to inform you that I have a real, live podcast! Well, it’s not live. It’s pre-recorded. But, I would be honored if you would give it a listen. To all my old friends that I don’t keep in contact with, this is a great way for you to conveniently be updated on what I’m doing with my life. While it doesn’t show up in the actual iTunes Directory, you can subscribe to it by opening iTunes, clicking on the “Advanced” tab, and then clicking “Subscribe to Podcast”. When the field pops up, paste this address into the space:
http://jordaneller.solidwebhost.com/ElleresquePodcast.xml
iTunes is still processing my submission, so a more conventional way of listening would be to go here:
http://soundcloud.com/j-eller
From here, you can listen and download the files as you see fit.
I realize that by abstaining from Facebook, I have lost touch with a lot of people I care about. I hope that you can find some enjoyment in listening to my ramblings.
Thanks!

-J

A Quick, Videoriffic Update

Hi there. I just realized YouTube upped it’s time constraint from 10 minutes to 15 minutes, so that means I can slap on a couple more videos that were outlawed before. Here’re my 3 newest ones, as well as a link to my channel, so you can keep up with all my goofy, pale antics. YouTube kind of squashed the quality of the videos, so, uh, boo YouTube.










For better video quality, watch it on my actual channel: http://www.youtube.com/user/likeiis

-J

Micyclist

I don't understand car culture. Well, I didn't used to. I get it now, but it took me a long time. Yesterday morning I was waiting for the shuttle to pick me up and whisk me away to Campusland, and I saw two lizards on the curb next to me. The bigger lizard began bobbing up and down and flexing his neck-flap thing. This kept up for about 30 seconds or so. After that, the ladylizard ran away. It may not seem like much, but that tiny, natural exchange is what helped me understand car culture, and a few other things.

I complain about the macho douchebags I see at FGCU all the time. White Oakley sunglasses? Check. Black flatcap with the Atlanta Braves logo on it? Check. Backs his dad's old Lexus into every parking spot he finds? Check. Fratboy, why does your dad's old Lexus have a spoiler now? What about those 22' chromium wheels? And that subwoofer that wakes me up at 3 in the morning as you drive back from yo boy's house after a hard night of drinking and smoking? What's up with that? Well, Brian/ Anthony/ Mark/ Scott/ Matt/ Mike/ whatever your name is, I know why. I've FIGURED YOU OUT. And it's all thanks to nature. In nature, the male species must always ALWAYS has to put on some sort of display of affection and superiority if he wants to have any chance of porking the nearest ladybird or ladygoose. It's just instinct. A long time ago, at the advent of the Paleodouchic Era, a guy saw a bird making a fool out of himself for a ladybird and thought, Gee, I wanna try that! So he did. And it worked! Fast forward to nowtimes. The most popular, studly males around are basically driving around in flashy, attention-getting pre-mating rituals, except now they're called "Honda Civics". Don't believe me?

Right. See? The only reason you can buy spinners for your rims at every conflabbed mall kiosk in town is because nature dictates and requires it if you want to have any hope of reproducing. I think it's hilarious that humans are just as goofy as flamingoes when it comes to attracting a mate. Instead of all that weird strutting and cawwing, we just make awkward conversation and convince the opposite sex that we're not that horrible. I'm not saying that females are attracted to meaningless baubles and counterfeit gestures, because they're not. Er, right?



The nature metaphors continue below.

B'AWWWW. Cyclists equal cute, squishy things? No, dummy. Focus.



Cyclists are the mice of the road. Tiny, athletic, and sometimes nocturnal. Cyclists bother me for the same reason mice bother other people: they have the potential to cause some serious damage. Mice by themselves are not so bad. You see one in a forest or something and say, "Aw, cute". Same with cyclists. "Good for you, flabby 50-something frizzy-haired lady in an unfortunate sportsbra! I'm proud of you.". Not a big deal. But, what happens when you see a bunch cyclists in front of you in YOUR lane? You think the same thing when you see a bunch of mice together. "Bubonic plague". Or "dinner for snakes". Both of these things can apply to a cyclist, I guess, but the general idea that I'm trying to convey here is that a cluster of cyclists puts everybody on the road on edge. One wrong move and you could very easily kill 3 people, ya know? I'm not a nervous driver, but nothing triggers a nasty case of anxious back-sweat like riding next to a cyclist at a traffic light or other significant infrastructural junction. I just don't like that they ride out in the middle of the road in this itty-bitty lane. It seems completely counter-intuitive! If I were a biker, I would A) bike somewhere scenic and pleasant, not on Three Oaks "Deathtrap" Parkway and B) bike on a SIDEWALK, away from a ROAD. Oop, er, what's that noise?

Oh, it's a million bicyclists protesting their lack of rights on the road. Hm, well, huh. I mean, there is a bike lane, and you're more than welcome to use it. And, well, I'll try not to run you over when you and your neon-colored posse cut me off as I'm trying to turn, so...two rights. I'm giving you two rights.



I like bike rides. I would, at some point, like to bike around Paris or Venice or somewhere scenic. I love bike rides, but it just seems like the presence of gigantic, exhaust-spewing bowling balls on the road would make anyone think twice about riding on a road. We have parks! Parks are nice.



-J





PS - You would not BELIEVE how many pictures of naked bicyclists show up when you type "Bicycle Protest" into Google Images. Sheesh.

Monty

I woke up this morning at 7AM, 15 minutes later than I should've woken up. I woke up late because my alarm is my cell phone, and my cell phone was on vibrate. I took a quick shower and gathered up my school supplies for the day. I left the dorm and went downstairs to wait for the shuttle to take me to campus proper. It arrives about 10 minutes later. The shuttle was only half-full, which at first was refreshing, because usually the bus gets so packed that my face is forced into some foul crevasse of the stranger in front of me. But it wasn't that way this morning, so I sat down and stretched out a little bit. Unfortunately, FGCU only can afford 3 buses (which is strange, because we just spent $250,000 on a state-of-the-art golf simulator), so we were slowly making our way through the dorms, picking up all sorts of groggy, moaning zombies.

Now, I'm a chivalrous fellow. I hold doors open for ladies. I speak politely around ladies. I try not to push them into mud puddles. I'm a nice guy. Usually, if I've got a seat on the bus and I see a girl having to stand and hold on to the ceiling-bar, I'll cede my seat to her. She thanks me politely and I shrug it off like the aloof stud that I am. That did not happen today. I was tired, depressed, and hungry. But most importantly, I was comfortably seated. We kept piling more and more kids on the bus until eventually the seats were all filled and people began standing and hanging onto the bar. A tall, pretty girl wearing a strapless dress sat next to me. I gave the obligatory smile and mumbled a hello as her butt landed right next to me. We were sitting in silence as we watched girls and boys line up in the aisle and grab the bar overhead. Two girls were standing right in front of me and Dress Girl. All of a sudden, as if it were choreographed, two fratboys sitting across from me get up and insist the girls take their seats. Great, I thought. Now every dude on the bus feels like a jerk for not getting up for these broads. To make matters worse, Dress Girl spurts, "Awh, you guys are so sweet!". Thanks, woman. I appreciate that. Not only do those fratboys make every guy on the bus look like an inconsiderate moron, but they receive Dress Girl's affection, too. How nice.

I could have done that. I felt like I should have, but then I remembered, "Wait, I DO do that." Except, when I do it, nobody says a word. Or if they do, it's a disdainful "Thanks...". Those are even worse. They might as well just say, "What took you so long, asshole?". Plus, no girl is going to be smitten with me if I give her my seat. It's not like I've ever made friends with a girl by giving up that comfy, foamy throne. It's a lose-lose situation. If I stand and give up my seat, every guy on the bus suddenly hates me, and the girl to whom the seat was given just hates me a little less. If I don't give up my seat, I look like a jackass as soon as some gentleman becomes courteous enough to allow a girl to take his seat. My solution? Never sit down. Even if I'm the first one on the bus, I will go directly to the back and grasp that cold metal bar of restitution, and stand.

I enjoy conversation. I like talking to people. I like making people laugh. I see people like little puzzles that I can try to solve. Some people are tougher to crack, and other people are unsatisfyingly easy. But, one facet of conversation that I have a tough time tolerating is the word "So..."

To clarify, I like the word "so". "So" is very handy. One of my favorite adjectives, really. However, "so" has become corrupted and turned into a withering, stifling sledgehammer to any conversation. An example:

Jordan: Hey, have you ever been skiing?
Dingus: Ha, yeah. But it gets tiring after awhile, so...

"So..."? So what? "So...take a nice bath afterwards"? "So...bring some cocaine to perk you up when you're done"? "So..." is the easiest way to convey to the other conversational party that you are either A) inept at entertaining a thought or B) not at all interested in what I have to say. To add insult upon injury, many people add the devastating "yeah." after the "so". Nothing is more frustrating that sparking up a conversation, and before anything gets accomplished, your friend ends his piece with, "so...yeah.". What am I supposed to say to that? Are you reassuring yourself that you're smart and funny or something? Because chances are, if you end your sentences with "so...yeah", you're half-Mongoloid who can't finish a thought.

To be honest, I've used "so...yeah" a couple times, but for a totally different reason. I use it for comedic value, or to let someone know that I don't want to talk about something. Like this.

A) Jordan: Yeah, I'm wear a size 10 sneaker, but a size 7 high-heel. So...yeah.

OR
B) Jordan: And then we just sort of went our seperate ways. So...yeah.

There you go. Those are the only two permissable circumstances when "so..." becomes appropriate.

I don't have any pictures in this post. Congrats if you managed to read all this. You're a real good friend.

-J

Shakespeare

I saw a commercial for the new Michael Cera movie, and I noticed his character was wearing a shirt that Billy Corgan (from Smashing Pumpkins) made famous.

That's almost enough reason for me to go see it.

My brief Facebook tenure is over for good, I think. It was nice catching up with some people, and I think I was nice enough to buy myself another 5 years of excommunication before I feel obligated to catch up with them.

Obligatory conversation is best dealt with while driving. When you're driving around town, and you see an old friend walking down the sidewalk, you stick your head out the window and yell, "Hey! Howya been!". They have about 15 seconds to respond, and then you have to move on. When you're walking, however, you MUST STOP and chat. I'm no sociopath, but if I'm walking anywhere, I am usually trying to get somewhere, and unless you're going to give me food or money, I would really just prefer to keep moving.

I'm wondering who you are. I'm not going to say that I don't expect people to read this, because that's a lie. But I am curious who you are and why you're reading this. Joey? Is that you?

That's my old friend Andy. He's moving to up north for college in a couple days. After that, I'll officially have to repopulate my Friends List. That's right, I keep a Friends List. I used to have millions and millions of friends, but after a while I had to start crossing them off. I'm not callous or anything, it's just that they changed or I changed and life goes on. Making friends in high school was so easy. You're surrounded by all types of people for 6 hours a day. It's impossible NOT to make a bunch of friends. No one had jobs or serious girlfriends. After a while, you develop a certain preference for a certain type of person. I prefer people that are interesting and weird. There's a difference between people that try to be weird and people that are inherently weird, though. The people that pride themselves on being weird are usually the people with an alcoholic stepdad or a nasty habit of inviting friends over to watch porn together.

Hands down, the weirdest, most interesting person I've ever met is the illustrious Ian Daniels. He was a slender, pale Irish kid with a copious amount of thick brown hair and a mumbling voice. I met him during my Freshman year of high school, on the bus. He's like a character out of a book. I don't know what happened to him. He's like a legend. Nobody's heard from him in months. I hope he's alright.

A lot of people like Michael Cera for the same reason a lot of people like Will Ferrell, and that reason is "typecasting". Cera, like Ferrell, plays essentially the exact same character in every movie. It's gotten to the point where a movie starring either of these actors basically feels like a sequel to the previous respective movie they starred in. Let's see some variety, guys.

An Inconvenient Truth

Yes. It's happened. I have a Facebook now. I have turned my back on my own self-imposed social prison and am attempting to reach out in a way that I once considered, well, just kind of dumb. I have realized a certain sad, yet undeniable truth: I am no longer able to stand in the way of progress.

I regard Facebook as a necessary evil. It's gotten to the point where I can no longer ask for someone's phone number, since I will have skipped the "I'll Facebook you!" step and will thusly be considered rude and aggressive. It's an unfortunate state of affairs, but what can I do? I've lost contact with nearly everyone I used to talk to simply because everybody hates phone calls, apparently. So, being the totally and utterly selfless boy that I am, I've dedicated my Facebook to you, the reader, my friend.

Which basically means it's your fault for not calling me. Dorks!

-J

Baseball

Up until recently, I've been somewhat of a pessimist. If you look over any of my previous blogs or Tweets, you'll see that I can always find something to complain about. Call it a talent, a curse, whatever you want, but from HERE ON OUT, I'm going to start liking people. It's too easy to hate stupid people. It's like trying to hunt down every terrorist in the world. Impossible, right? So, I'm going to take the road less traveled and try to understand and embrace people of every personality and behavior.

Excpet for these people:

Hipsters.

Gangsters stand for power and infamy; Nerds stand for intelligence; Athletes stand for fitness and strength.

Hipsters stand for nothing.

You see them everyday. The pale, skinny-armed, mocha-colored-Aviator-sunglasses-wearing pseudo-hippies that trapse around smelling like marijuana and looking like roadkill. To me, the Hipster is the antithesis of what people should aspire to be. I understand that some women are strangely attracted to them, but that's because women are very vain. See, if they could, women would just clone themselves and make out with their clone all day. But, Hipsters offer an almost identical alternative (since they're sensitive, emotional, chic, and penis-less); women can make out with Hipsters all they want without declaring themselves as lesbians. Handy, no?

Hipsters attempt to establish themselves as "Mysteriously Awesome". By wearing t-shirts emblazened with the logo of a little-known Indie band, they can achieve a fundamental level of mystere. Coupled with a pair of jeans purchased at the local Babies 'R Us and a ill-fitting wool cap, the Hipster is ready to mosey out into the world. Of course, there's the optional wisp of facial hair, or haircut (one of which that entails the asking of the barber to "just f&#k it up"), but if the Hipster wishes to transcend to the ultimate level of Slackerism, the one crucial element required is simply this: do not use hard consonant sounds This is the coup de grace when it comes to the Hipster ideology. Don't understand? Let me explain with some examples.

"What's up, bro?" becomes "Wha's uh, prah?".

"No freaking way, dude!" becomes "Nah free'in way, dooh!"

"Let me help you down from that forklift, sir." becomes "Lemme ghet you dun fruh tha for'lift, suh."

See? It's that easy. With this lexicon, the Hipsters can quickly and effectively move throughout society as well as assimilate new members in their quest for, uh, nothing.

The only way to snap out of the spiraling depression that I am occasionally afflicted with when I hear Hipsters speak, see them move, smell them, or taste them, is to think about two things. 1) Where they work and 2) what they do during family vacations.

1) Most Hipsters either don't work or are garbage emptiers/floor moppers at the local movie theater, fast food joint, or Blockbuster. This is because Hipsters are what you'd call "Unskilled Laborers". You see, in the 1870's, during America's burgeoning Industrial Age, workers were pigeonholed into two categories: Skilled and Unskilled. This is basically the same thing. When a middle-aged man walks into BurgerKing and orders a burger, he doesn't want to look into the reflective surface of a lip ring or see the sweat glistening on the swollen pores of a freshly shaven chin, since the manager said that "soul patches were unacceptable in the workplace". Therefore, Hipsters are banished to the back of the building and made to clean up the excess waste made by those of worth. And to me, that is amusing.

2) During the actual trip to the family get-together, the Hipster assumes the position in the back seat of the van or SUV. Earbuds placed firmly in the cochlea, iPod turned up to maximum volume so as to avoid any irritating conversation by other family members, and cell phone keyboard clicking away with the words of unfounded disdain about how much he hates his family floating across the ether to the Hipster's friend. When he arrives at the destination, he crawls into his hotel room and turns on MTV. If there are relatives present, he sulks in a remote corner and only fields questions about his life when he has to. "Oh, well, what are you studying in college?". "Digital design, but it sucks. I wanna transfer to Full Sail.". After all the relatives have had their sufficient fill of awkward chitchat, the relatives get the message and back off. So it goes. And so I laugh.

This is the life of Hipsters. The represent nothing, save for their own feeble attempts at individualism. "But Jordan, how are you able to offer such insight on the lives of hipsters? This seems a little bit ill-advised.". Well, I'll tell you how I know so much.

Because I've been there.

Maybe the road less traveled is less traveled for a reason.

Anyway, I'm going to start liking people. Except for people like me.

-J