The Faux Pas Press #16: The Fresh Me

The Faux Pas Press #16

A Weekly Thought

By Jason Fresh

16 November 2009

The Fresh Me

“You had better make sure you talk to somebody. You can’t walk around this world doing what you want, Jason. Sometimes you just have to do what is right.”

These are poignant words, I guess – depending on who ask and what church they attend, what beliefs control their lives. Have you considered that the investment you need to make is in you? It is not an investment in someone else’s behavior or in some cockamamie scheme?

“So, Jason, what’s up, man? Where have you been? We have not seen you around here in a while?”

Pablo Solano asks me this question because there is permanence in me, a messianic, visionary purpose that makes slaves a little uncomfortable. He is a guy, working for the Man, a guy who might even be called the Man. I don’t know, but what I do know is he smells like someone else, looks like someone else. I look like me. He is a conglomeration of everyone who has known him, his over-paid public teachers, his Sunday school administrators, and his warrior buddies who like to get drunk and break shit.

What is interesting is that Pablo Solano has had numerous conversations with me about the most recent, monumental events of my life.

Have you ever had a conversation where you thought that someone was really listening to you only discover that they were thinking about a tee time?

I distinctly remember describing, in detail, what the months of November and December would look like for me; there would be a baby, a little princess named Lola, a wife coming here, a class to take, and little else. I might have even described my work-out routine to this guy, but the details of my dance on this planet are pretty bland, I guess. Maybe they are not that interesting.

My time is better spent talking to a wall or this Veggie Delite sandwich in front of me. There are jalapenos on this thing at least – they spice things up for me – they don’t listen to me, but I’m beginning to believe these peppers do more for me than most well-adjusted, functioning adults. Who said you can’t talk to vegetables? I might have to start. In two months of working with a person, they can’t remember the single most important event of my life?

“I just got back from California, remember? My wife and I had a baby. I’m pretty sure we talked about that. Were you thinking about your World of Warcraft character?”

“Oh, that’s right? Did you just get the laser eye surgery too?”

I am wearing sunglasses so I give him points for noticing. I ponder for no more than a second; I recall that I have actually borrowed eye drops from this guy when I had run out. (Are you serious?)

“No, actually, that happened in September. It is now November.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah…”

I stare at the bewildered Pablo, wondering if he is, perhaps, from another planet, sent here to fuck with me. No, that would make too much sense. I’ve encountered my fair share of extraterrestrials, and they at least remembered my name and serial number. Is this guy a regular space case or apparition from the beyond? (As it stands, I’m pretty familiar with both.) The truth hurts, but it is a good hurt in this case, like a shot of vodka with a truth wedge, lighting up the canals of my digestive system and soul.

He staggers a few steps and mutters another inconsequential nothing. “Oh, your baby came,” I am walking away from the impending stupidity at this point, “How is he?”

Yeah, so, I can handle the truth. I can accept the fact that the world revolves around the Sun and not around the individual, I can accept my insignificance in the scheme of things, but what the hell?

“She is fine, Pablo Solano from San Luis Potosi, Mexico or where ever you guys came from. I’m not sure, I don’t remember. You didn’t explain it to me 3 times even though I heard it the first. Yeah, I don’t remember talking to you about how we are both from the same state, how we both love the Mexican food in San Antonio, and how my Spanish proficiency scores are better than yours. Yeah, I guess I’ll have to not remember your son’s due date at the end of December, you asshole. Yeah. Where did you say you were from again? Thanks. She’s dandy. Thank you for remembering and fuck you for not.”

So, I’ve decided that people don’t care - Can you guess? - don’t care about me. So, that having been said, I am officially announcing the new, artistic manifestation of me in this thought. My given name suits the government world I work in just fine. My given name suits my wife, it suits my real friends, my real supports, my family, my daughter, the Collective, and the blazing Renaissance Cartel, but I am new. The new and improved me, the fresh me, a real fresh – not like these canned jalapenos on my Veggie Delite.

I’m not asking for suggestions. I am the impetus of my own life. I am the force and I am the fury, the fold in the fabric, and I most certainly am the frequency. I’m new, and I’m fresh - Jason Fresh. Dip a tortilla chip into that. Or don’t. You’re life so freaking spicy anyway, right?

The Faux Pas Press is alive and well – ready to spice up every Monday. ¡Disfruta! Here is the thought: No one can be a better you than you – you just have to know who you really are. (I’ll let you know each week as I discover who I am.)

Green Lights,

Jason Fresh

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