The Genius/Brilliance of Jason Mraz.
Just because his journal entries rival mine...
"01.23.2006
Excuses for Excusing one's Self.
Eleanor Roosevelt said,
“Great minds discuss ideas.
Average minds discuss events.
Small minds discuss people.”
I want to have a great mind. But here I am discussing Eleanor Roosevelt already.
Moving on.
Long flights. I ride the veins of American Airlines and others that guarantee to put you closer to the stars. I’m a vital organism, an accident put into motion to serve a purpose, to choose my own direction, to fulfill my own fantasies, my own dreams, to remember my own accomplishments, all in which will determine who I am.
So who am I?
For ages I feel like I left that for you to decide, for readers to realize and get back to me with results, reviews, commentary, compliments and complaints. I feel like I forgot how to decide for myself. Thank goodness I’m figuring all this out again. It happened once and I flew without an airline ticket. Then I came down. I didn’t know where I was. So I started over again. I found love. I found my path. And I found it all in my Self.
There’s plenty of work left for betterment. I’m not naïve to that. I wont sit here after this entry and pretend I’m staying in this just the right place. Work can be done with my eyes closed, which is perfect for a job blinded by the shining lights of opportunity and deafening screams. Creativity is good work. Creativity is everywhere. Every choice you make. Each article of clothing you choose to dress yourself with is a creative move. Every turn you make sends you on your way deeper into the realm of creative freedom. Every piece of food you swallow you design to strengthen you or give you the feeling you crave. You quench your creative thirst by standing in the rain or drinking a Pepsi when Coke is not available. Everything is relative. Nothing is impossible.
This used to be my motto. When I started speaking to the public and answering questions, these were the kinds of answers I would attempt to create. The general public and members of the press were not strangers. I made an effort for them to appear as my friends. Over time all of that changed. My answers grew tired for it seemed no one wanted to hear that metaphysical shit. My musical influences changed from Belle and Sebastian to whatever was on the radio since no one could relate to Belle and Sebastian having never heard of them. I wasn’t fitting in. My choices were not contemporary enough. It was very frustrating. So I changed my answers to make it easy. I stopped addressing to the life on my path. Eventually I ignored my path altogether, and the whimsical world where my path resides and carves through beautiful landscapes, became nothing more than a clouded area, popularized by fog, a sullen grey or out of bounds area on a treasure map, a place without reason, a path overgrown with weeds, a home decayed by deferred maintenance. When it came time to determine my location I was lost, or worse, easily spotted, in the middle of the road. Big Fat M.O. R. It’s easier to see faults in others than it is to find remarkable qualities, and as soon as begin to believe your own weaknesses as faults albeit wrong, well, then you’re fucked.
I let it get to me. I had too many expectations. I heard about too many expectations of others and I grew tired. I was giving up. I subconsciously sabotaged my own projects in hopes of being released from the popular reality back into the wild, to have time once again to reclaim my own path, a path not written by another, a path that leads not to a predestined location based on a series of formulas one can follow to receive a lucrative reward. Reward is what you make of it, and reward can be made from anything. The best reward comes from within, given to yourself for a job well done, reviewed by you and that voice in your head. That voice is your friend, believe it or not. It’s your best friend. If you’re one of those folks who think the voice is bad, well, then your still afraid of something. You’re probably afraid to go for what you want because you don’t like the idea of not getting it. Surprise. You wont get it anyway if you don’t try. And guess what. Getting it doesn’t make matters special anyway. It’s the effort.
I was asked today about a memorable experience I’ve had in the music business. I have none. There’s nothing I’ve done in this industry that compares to the day I decided to do it. That’s my most memorable experience. And I guess that’s where I’m headed with this. I’m starting over again. I’ve wiped the slate clean. I’ve strayed from the public long enough. I left everyone in the dark, everyone, from you at the top of the game, to those who run the show at the bottom of the food chain. No one is as important as the next person from now on. I’m sorry I ever believed that.
So what have I been doing?
Here now is another edition of excerpts from:
01.07.06
I went to the zoo last week. That was a nice family outing. I spoke to all kinds of bears, monkeys, cats, and lots of things in the pig family. I didn’t realize how many kinds of warty hogs there are in the world. Far from endangered by the way. Hooray Bacon! My lady and I have a soft spot for animals, especially ones that look like they need a hug. All day I hear, I want one. Can I have one? Let’s get one. I wish I could. But the coyotes, in conjunction with the touring schedule, make it near impossible to adopt an animal. This sucks. But I do my best to make up for the animal missing in our lives by pretending to be one myself. I’ve almost got the hang of the natural existence and learning to just be, if only I could lick my balls.
01.13.06
Bob Schneider is God.
01.17.18.19.06
I don’t have my glasses on so I’m unable to read what exactly the mileage between seat 12J and Narita are. The digits on the screen look Japanese to my sorry eyes. I’m afraid to find out what exactly it says. We’ve not even left the ground. Already the screen is showing the cartoon plane we’re supposed to follow to prevent anyone from asking, are we there yet. We’re not anywhere yet. The plane is parked perfectly between the words Los and Angeles. Why are my lips chapping? Is it dry in here? I didn’t get enough sleep last night. I should change the air and heating filters before I get home. That orange juice did get moldy awfully fast. What would I do without the nagging voice in my life to look out for me and snuggle me delicious? I better brush my teeth. This is going to be a bumpy ride.
I can only write as long as the Ambien will allow. The screen is showing 6857 surrounded by Japanese characters. Now the plane is moving. A great red poo exits the rear of the plane. This is an age old design to help us find our way home, or for loved ones to easily spot us high in the skies, where we are currently soaring over two similar pantone shades of blue. I assume the darker the blue, the deeper the water, wet better depth to land us in my dear. Our pilot is female. According to the navigational screen she’s kickin ass in the sky, excelling in the Japanese letter/number obstacle course. Go Pilot Lady. I forgot your name already. But Go my forgettable hero. You Rock! How I wish I could scream these things to her, and to the delight of the other passengers already time-locked into their comas. We’re force fed a brochure made of lettuce with information disguised as a nutritious snack. The leafy pamphlet prepares us for the big jump across the date line*, the entertainment circus of old movies, golf channel’s greatest hats and slacks, together at last, and Tv, all the way up here. Please, God, find a way to plague the TV and it’s worshipping community of actors, audiences, and cult followers. The TV recently befriended my roommate, therefore entered my house and already its power for volume is greater than the god force in my own head. I feel weak. I think it’s why I’m on a plane to Japan. I have to get back to the television makers and let them know what’s happening around the world. It’s the biggest story no paper is covering. Zero News shows are showing it. Ouch, a leg hair disagrees with these sweatpants. EVERYONE IS STILL WATCHING TV! Even in restaurants with no volume we’re staring at a TALK show, reading lips, desperately hoping we’ll get a smidgen of a source to feed on. OUR SMALL MINDS NEED IT. In other words, Kill your television. And then what? Hug your computer?
I was just asked to return to my seat. Sorry. How on earth was I still typing? Things are getting pretty strange around here. I can’t see myself anymore, only my body from the chest down, and my hands, and the blanket with super powers I designed to shield onboard farts from entering or exiting 12J. I’m a bit confused. I am still in control.
(Reading lettuce, reading Lettuce, aha!)
The Great Loss. I took off just some number hours ago. The day was Wednesday morning. Strangely it’s Thursday morning already… Those Chickens. I mean THOSE TURTLES..
All of this is in your preflight lettuce preparation package they give you, with socks in it, earplugs, lubes and ointments. This says to me. Butter yourself up. But don’t listen. When you fall asleep, we’ll be stealing little piggies for tomorrow’s stew. The one’s that try to fool us by going to the market, having roast beef, and going wee wee wee all the way home. We like it when you come home to mama.
THE FIRST EVER FOOTNOTE IN AN ONLINE JOUNRAL
*The international date-line terminal exists in no time what so ever. Therefore no human is allowed to work there and the plane itself cannot stop moving for risk that it, along with all of the aircrafts most important passengers, could be left behind, or worse, made to read the Bestselling “Left Behind” series for the remainder of the flight. The Intl. Date line Terminal is a hovering unit, occupied mostly by robots and at least two Chubby Desert Turtles. They provide a calm work environment, lowering robot blood pressures, etc. The Turtles are also a measure of robot conduct and capability, being as the average lifespan of a turtle is one that is longer than that of the toll-collecting, high elevation robot. The jaunt our plane will have with this mad middle space terminal will only occur long enough for the perverted Robots to photograph our hot Captain and try to sell us on their Duty Free products. Just smile and wave instructs our Lady pilot. The Date-Line Committee being somewhat lost** above the Pacific, gladly accept smiles and warm wishes as toll these days. Friendliness is godliness. And good god are my gasses the devil. (Devil Not to be confused with my Journalism Skills)
THE SECOND FOOTNOTE IN AN ONLINE JOURNAL OF ALL TIME
**lost seems to be a pretty good show. I’ve never seen it. But I hear a lot about it. People like it. They get along using a friendly dialogue about the plot and casting choices and choices made by the characters on the show. I like that what I hear most are the ideas about how and why these people ended up the way they did. Not so much who they are? I know the answers to that show. It’s all around them. And if they want to get out they should walk off the set, and you should turn off your TV and get started on that invention that’s going to make it possible for everyone to live as The Grizzly Man# did.
BEHOLD, THE THIRD EVER FOOTNOTE IN A SINGLE ONLINE JOURNAL HAS ARRIVED.
#Granted this is the third footnote, but I am also the second to be born within a footnote, with regards to the main letter, I feel orphaned out here, a spawn of A good Idea, an average event, and a small minded Bear Hugger. I loved the Bear Hugger Most. His tragedy will live with me thanks to a very descriptive story told by his mortician. Since he is out of reach of 12J, I will salute from my window seat over the Gulf of Alaska. Somewhere there down you shall stumble on Man Brown’s hibernation to infinity.^^ Thanks in-flight map for showing me the way to silently say hey to so many magicians living under the river mountains. Our plane still fires its red laser from Los Angeles. I think that’s a great idea. You should plan to Kill Your TV.
WHENCEFORTH A NEW FOOTNOTE APPEARED, WE CALLED IT THE FOURTH
Infinity (is greater than) Infinity ? The answer awaits you at www.chucknorrisfacts.com
The in-flight screen is now showing me this:
19089 w/ japanese scribble next to it. What does it mean!?
812 japanapa scribb-plus
-52 Fo scribble my Nibble
I think it’s safe to say the time of yore is over past four when the score of the lords verses doors and floors is final.. for that is when we sleep the rock of ages in stages made of cages displayed at the Pantages. And all the rage is befelt before the becoming of the bedone-ing and bring on the bacon said Candi Station. We like to Party. Seat 12 J, signing off. Where I wake up is where I’ll walk. And what I’ll look like is wear I live. www.blendapparel.com in the House slash boeing 777.
01.19.06
My room here in Manila feels like it did when I left it almost 2 years ago. Assuming it’s the same room. It’s hard to tell. Hotels have a wonderful way of making you feel like your always coming home, that is, if you show your loyalty to a select few. Holy shit, my name is embroidered on the pillows. I wish I had brought a camera with me now. I would’ve taken a photo of agro-Toca on the flight to Manila as he was purposefully spilling a soda on the guy in front of him in protest of minimal legroom.
01.20.06
A man has to have goals. Okay. I wanna be like Tom Watson, I think that’s his name. He played head to head with Jack Nicklaus for years. I’d be okay to be like Jack as well. There was something about the hair back then, and their build. I want to be tall, tone, dashingly handsome, and excel in golf when I’m not putting out emotional tunes that make your heart bleed or belly laugh. I’ll need a yellow sweater, a strict exercise regime, and I’ll have to be done with smoking for good. This year I turn 29. I can push my way through these new ideas and by the time I’m 30 be complete with them. My goals are realistic.
01.21.06
I’ve spent maybe 6 dollars since I’ve been here, on two 3-dollar beverages from Starbucks, which were actually paid for by my companions on this adventure. At the show last night, they advertised this hotel as the official residence of Jason Mraz. They aren’t kidding. Every employee in this place calls me by my first name. Good morning Mr. Jason. Will you be having tea with us Mr. Jason? Don’t forget to take your pillowcases home with you Mr. Jason. My name is embroidered on the pillowcases. They also gave me breakfast coupons so all I have to do is hand one over to feast the waffle, rice and everything that comes from a pig.
Mr. Jason was what they called me when I worked at a day care center for about a month during the summer of 96. It was called Almost Angels Day care center. To me that name sounded more like kids who were almost dead. I couldn’t handle that kind of pressure.
Toca scored some (blank) last night, the very same that was given to JaRule and the Black Eyed Peas when they stayed here. I wonder if they had black Eyes Peas inscribed on the pillowcases. If so I want a pair to go with my Black Eyed Pea themed bedroom at home. They will complete the collection in the elegant manner I’m aiming for. Mraz I Am.
01.21.06
What am I doing? I’ve been sitting at this computer for way too long. I think my butt cheeks have finally grown together. I knew this would happen. It feels like I do when I sit on the comfort of your strangeness.
The end."