Japan, a broken game console, and meat muffins

Well, we have JET interviews in two weeks.  I’ve been trolling some forums full of people in the same boat as me and watching them stress out about the interview process.  Personally I just need a suit, some shoes, and enough fucking sense to remember to be myself, and I think it’ll be okay.  Maybe they’ll let me have a beer (or three) first?

My 360 has been on its death march the last several weeks (requiring multiple reboots just to read whatever disc is in the drive), and so I hastened the process by pulling the power cord out and plugging it back in repeatedly until it gave me the "red ring of death," an error that Microsoft will use as an indicator to repair your console for free.  I packed it all up in plastic bags and stuffed it in a box, then left for my walk to work, ten pounds of broken system under my arm.  I instinctively shuddered as I left for good reason–the place I looked up where I was going to drop it off (a UPS center) was conveniently closed forever.  Thanks Internet!  So I was the recipient of the joyful experience of lugging it a mile up to work.  I am half expecting it to teleport from the mail room back to my apartment, where upon my return it will emerge from its steely cocoon and slide its disc tray out.  Inside there will be only gristle, unidentified organic matter, and metal shavings.  It will deliver an incantation that devours the city.

My roommate turns thirty-two next week, which is pretty close to the age my father was when I was old enough to start being aware of how old my father was.  I am kind of glad that I have a dude to hang out with who is a few years older than me, and as a consequence can be a good reference point regarding those times when I am indeed being a pussy.  At the same time I’m glad to finally have a roommate who doesn’t particularly care when I’m being one of those, and is happy to have a seat and smoke a big fat bowl with me while we destroy people in online video games.  It has been a fortuitous random match.  I sometimes wonder if there are other woulda-been roommates out there that are totally bored cause we are not hanging out.

Last night I made minimeatloaves, which I prefer calling minimeatloaf just because I like the word loaf pretty well.  Imagine composing in a bowl a substance you would call meatloaf, prior to cooking, and then imagine spraying a muffin tin with cooking spray, and then imagine rolling the meatloaf into twelve tiny orbs which you then smash down into the muffin cups.  Imagine cooking it in the oven, and then imagine taking it out and popping the contents of one cup out, and you’re looking at minimeatloaf.  I slathered a few with ketchup and ate them with some steamed green beans.  The eight remaining minimeats mingle in my refrigerator at home, surely anticipating their own doom.  Today I cut one up in front of its buddies and put it on a bun for sandwich time.  It seemed pretty cool with all that.  I am partially considering putting them into actual cupcake wrappers next time and passing them off as “beef muffins,” but only because it would be an excuse for me to frost the minimeatloaf with German chocolate icing, a situation I frankly dream about.