#1 - The Things We Do for Angie

"You're far away from me, my love.
But just as sure, my baby, as there are stars above,
I wanna say, I wanna say, I wanna say
Someday we'll be together."
- Diana Ross and the Supremes

Occupying the #1 spot on the J.Day Countdown is the fire of my loins, Angela "Angie" Bovenkamp. You may remember my first mention of her back in November of 2006. Now, almost two years later, I'm convinced more than ever that Angie is a cruel joke the universe has played on me. Why else would such an incredible specimen of woman - headstrong, creative, intelligent, and beautiful - be situated five states away? It's like asking why the stars are out of reach.

Let me tell you what she did for my birthday. For about a year now I've been talking her ear off about how much I'd like to visit Edgar Allan Poe's gravesite in Baltimore (a hop, skip, and a jump from where she lives). So, when J.Day rolled around, Angie took a weekend trip to Baltimore, snapped some awesome black-and-white photos of Poe's headstone (her photography is truly sublime), and then arranged it in a shadow box along with the quote "Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears."....I won't hesitate to call it the single most thoughtful gift I've ever been given. And, naturally, I proposed marriage to her when I got it in the mail. She said "Okay" (the object of much ridicule in every conversation since), but I'm not sure how serious it was. Guess we'll have to wait and see. If she shows up for her visit next month and wants to talk about bridesmaid dresses, I'll know it's for real.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "J, you do that whole fake relationship thing with everyone. You have fake kids and fake ex-wives and fake divorces ALL OVER THE PLACE. You even put a fake engagement announcement in the paper once!" Yes, all of that is true, dear readers. I can't deny any of it. But I say it here in print for all to see: Angie is one of five people I could actually see myself making a real future with. I mean, just look at the pic above - the one where she's smiling coyly while wearing the James Joyce shirt I got her for Christmas. Be still, my heart. There's nothing quite as endearing as someone who's willing to go along with interests they don't even share for the sake of making you happy.

I should also mention that Angie is an incredible writer (a compliment I don't hand out very often or without good reason). One of our first bonding points was a blog she wrote entitled "Rejected On the Metro" -- that damn thing could be published. And in fact, it was once read on a radio show. Needless to say, the business side of me sees dollar signs all over it. That's why I plan to publish Angie's photograpy and memoirs through Gemini Hills Publishing. She thinks I'm joking and/or talking out of my ass, but seriously, I'm going to make her very wealthy someday.

It's rare that I gush like this. But then, Angie is a rare woman. And because I'm always giving her shit about her long pauses (an inside joke) and infidelity, I thought I'd do something different today. This one's for you, Mama Bear. "If I could, I would give you the world." Muah.

#2 - A Day No Blog Was Written

No one qualified for the second spot on my J.Day Friend Blogs Countdown. I was going to give this spot to Jon Quave by default, but he never got the number of days until my birthday right. (It's on May 25th.) So, here it is...the official "Choose Your Own Friend to Blog About" Adventure. Enjoy it.

#3 - Jared: Drunken King of Napalm Soccer

The reason I'm opening this blog with an image of Ghost Rider is because this is the image I most frequently associate with my boy Jared. Here's why...

Jared and I met sometime last year when we were both working part-time at Barnes & Noble. One night he and another co-worker of ours (a guy named Ashton) thumbed through a copy of The Anarchist Cookbook and came up with a plan to make napalm. But instead of using this napalm to go out and commit random acts of guerrilla terrorism, their big brilliant idea was to set a soccer ball on fire and then kick it around for a while. (Hopefully the Ghost Rider image is making more sense now.) Naturally I was invited to come along, and I was really looking forward to it...but it started raining like a son of a bitch before work was over. And thus our napalm soccer game was ruined. It was probably for the best.

I'm sure we'll get around to it sooner or later. But in the meantime I'll have to settle for Jared's frequent text messages that say stuff like: "People who drive drunk are fucking stupid. Not only do they get a DUI, they get an ass beating for totaling my car" and "I made u open ur phone 4 nothing. It's great having ur ass in check. Who's my bitch? UR my bitch!"...Jared is also the crowned prince of the drunk dial. (Keith is King.)

Next month Jared will be getting married to his girlfriend who's (in his own words) "a little pregnant." You have fun with that, Jared.

#4 - What Else Can I Say About Edie?

Oh boy...Edie's gonna hate me for this. Technically, she qualifies as #4 on this year's J.Day MySpace Countdown. The thing is, I've already written a long-ass blog about Edie (she just loooooves to see her name in print). You can find it right here. We haven't made many new memories in the last three years or so, so this pretty much covers it all.

One thing I will tell you, though (and I'm saying this with a sense of humor, Edie) is that Edie is the only friend I have who has invited and then UN-invited me to her wedding. Not sure exactly what the circumstances were, but I remember receiving an invitation and then getting an e-mail a few days later saying "Sorry! We've invited too many guests..." or something like that. hehe I'm glad it happened that way. Makes for a better story.

Hope all is well, Superstar.

#5 - With a Little Help from My Missy

Take a few minutes to absorb this pic of my friend Missy (the only friend I've managed to hang on to from my mid-high school theater days) and her husband Bill dressed up as K-Fed and Britney Spears. Note the attention to detail. The frozen coffee. The shirts. The eerie ease with which Bill strikes that pose and facial expression. Get a good laugh and then I'm gonna ruin it by telling you a sentimental story.....Ready? Okay.


You know how everybody likes to say that their friends are there for them through thick and thin? In good times and bad, they know they can depend on their friends? They get by with a little help from their friends; they get high with a little help from their friends? "I'll be there for you 'cause you're there for me too"? Well, I'd like to challenge that little notion today by calling attention to the fact that most friends never actually have to prove themselves. You might ASSUME that your friends would be there for you if tragedy struck, but unless there's something really wrong with you, most days are actually pretty good. Friends usually spend more time having fun together than getting through difficult times together.


Take me, for example. Most of the people reading this blog consider me a friend (at least, I hope they do), but very few of them have ever seen me really angry or sad (tell-tale signs of a shitty situation). Only one has seen me cry. And I'm not alone on this. I haven't seen most of MY friends get really angry or sad either. I've only seen two or three of them cry. And this is what sets Missy apart from most of my other friends.


A few years ago, during the second half of my Ole Miss career, I was hit with a series of three back-to-back personal tragedies. I did my best to hold back my emotions during the first two, but when the third one rolled around I basically reached my breaking point. Lucky for Missy, who was living in Kansas at the time, she just happened to be visiting family in Memphis during the week my downward spiral started. She invited me up for a visit so we could get caught up, and when I showed up at her mother's door, she officially won the award for "The Friend Who Has Seen Me at My Absolute Worst."


Understand, I wasn't in my usual sarcastic "let me tell you about this shit I've been dealing with" mode. I was completely out of my damn mind. Depressed. Disheveled. Disoriented. You name it. I couldn't even string my words and thoughts together. And about 20 minutes into my visit with Missy, I ended up stretching out and falling asleep face-down on her mom's living room floor. When I woke up a couple of hours later, Missy was sitting next to me with this half-upset/half-concerned look of worry on her face. "Are you gonna talk to me now?" she asked, obviously willing to listen to whatever I had to say.


"No," I told her. "I need to get home."


On my way back to Oxford, I had a flat tire in the middle of a one-lane and took forever to get it fixed. By the time I made it home and called Missy to let her know I was okay it was 2 or 3 in the morning. The sweet thing is, she sounded wide awake - as if she'd been up worrying about me. She confirmed this when she said to me, "I'm really worried about you. You're not yourself at all." I think she might have asked if I was on something, but I'm not really sure. Anyway,

I assured her that I would be fine, but even that wasn't enough to satisfy her. Over the next few weeks she called and e-mailed me periodically to make sure I was getting along okay. I couldn't help but feel a little guilty. Missy and I hadn't seen each other in about two years when I went to see her in Memphis...that WOULD be the time when I decided to hit rock-bottom. hehe All was forgiven, though, and Missy now holds a special place in my heart as a friend who was really there when I needed her most. (She was also the last person I talked to before I evacuated the Coast during Katrina. And one time in high school she was with me at the movies when I realized that I'd left my retainer at IHOP -- what is it about Missy and shit going wrong??)


The GOOD news is that Missy and Bill are currently expecting their first child. I was one of the lucky ones who got pics of the ultra-sound before they were a matter of public record:

They won't know for certain whether it's a boy or a girl until July, but my money is on "Girl". Any takers? (Congrats Missy and Bill!)

I'll leave you now with some quotes from one of my very favorite conversations with Missy:

J: I think I have Narcissistic Personality Disorder. I've been doing some reading about it, and I seriously fit all of the symptoms. The need for attention. The grandiose self-perception. The obsession with fame. Honestly, it's like I'm reading about myself.

Missy: (thinks for a second and smiles) Must be a pretty bitchin' disorder.

:)

#6 - Hallelujah! We've Got a Friend in Jenna!

If you've ever taken time to glance at my MySpace page you've no doubt seen a number of comments containing images like this:

These images - lifted from icanhascheeseburger.com - are routinely sent by my friend Jenna McDaniel, whom I met a coupla summers ago when I first started working for Barnes & Noble.

At first our conversation was basically centered around really predictable topics: stupid customers, my lame jokes about how "Jenna" is the name of one of my favorite actresses, etc. But then one night a literally miraculous thing happened...Everyone was straightening shelves at the end of the evening , and, as always, I volunteered to serenade my co-workers against their will. It started off with a Tool song, then "Tiny Dancer" (by request), and then I launched off into Rufus Wainwright's version of "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen. From the next aisle, Jenna actually SHRIEKED the words "I LOVE that song!!" Then (a hallmark of her conversational style) she reiterated the point by saying, "No, you don't understand. I'm IN LOVE WITH THAT SONG!"...And suddenly there were TWO of us serenading our co-workers against their will.

It's something that Jenna and I both understand. "Hallelujah" is not a song, it's an event. And whenever you get a group of people together who all know the words, it's damn near a religious experience. The secret to its strange beauty and power (Jenna and I have discussed this at great length) is that it's never really what you think it is. Whenever you hear "Hallelujah" in movies or on TV shows, it's usually played during sad scenes. But if you listen to the words, it's not really all that sad. Some people think of it as a love song, but that doesn't really get it right either. The way I see it, "Hallelujah" is a song about embracing every aspect of life: joy, bewilderment, doubt, passion, loneliness, success, failure, loss, redemption -- whatever it is, Hallelujah. At least you were alive to experience it. Leonard Cohen himself described it like this: "It's, as I say, a desire to affirm my faith in life, not in some formal religious way but with enthusiasm, with emotion... It's a rather joyous song."

If your faith is strong, but you need some proof, check out this version of "Hallelujah" by Alvin and the Chipmunks.



I fully expect this song to be played at my wedding, the births of my children, my Nobel Prize reception, the day I make my first million, my divorce proceedings, my release from jail, the day my youngest child turns 18 (no more child support), the day I get to the top of Mount Everest, and my funeral.

There are other songs in the Jenna/J Songbook of course (Jennifer Paige's "Crush" is an extremely guilty pleasure), but "Hallelujah" is the real glue holding this pinata together. Last August, we briefly worked together at the Beau Rivage (our discovery of one another in the employee dining area was quite possibly the most sorority-girl moment of my life). I was only there for three weeks, but I can remember at least 5 occasions when I received intra-office envelopes (marked URGENT), only to open them and find pieces of paper where Jenna had written phrases like "Remember, J., love is not a victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah." :)

It's strange the things a friendship can be built on. Some people need a lot of time to find their common ground. For me and Jenna, it all started with a song ---- not to mention emo kids and the phrase "SOO FUNNNNY!!" :)

Keep it real, Jenna.

#7 - Wendy Bell: No Relation to Tinker or Alexander Graham

When I came up with the idea for my fake wedding engagement back in 2000 (in all fairness, it was actually Amanda Nalley's idea), I sent all of my friends out on a "bride hunt" with one simple instruction: "She has to be a brunette. Everybody knows I would never marry a blonde or redhead."

Let me assure you, by the way, that finding a brunette is no easy task at Ole Miss. That campus is absolutely dripping with (bottle) blondes, and most Ole Miss girls (blonde or not) aren't the types to jump at something like a fake engagement announcement. Consider it from their perspective: a semi-strange guy (from the Coast, no less) approaches them and asks if they would mind pretending to be his fiance' in a major news publication. It's a different breed of girl who willingly and enthusiastically goes along with something like that. So you can see the challenge we had before us. Not only did we have to find a brunette, we had to find the right KIND of brunette...And that's how I met Wendy Bell ("It's the perfect Peter Pan name," she once told me).

In the time following our broken engagement (I never refer to her as anything but "my ex-fiance'"), Wendy and I have remained very close friends. We went to the First Annual Oxford Film Festival together, she was hands-down the best Valentine's date I've ever had (ask her about my call to OnStar sometime), she once got Mac and I into a Playboy Party in Memphis for free (she worked as a Playboy college rep for a while), and like myself, she has been a slave to the Disney machine. My favorite memory of Wendy, though, would have to be that special night in 2004 when we stood front row at a David Bowie concert in New Orleans.

Let the record show that I love David Bowie. Seriously, I turn myself on when I sing "Ziggy Stardust" in the shower. But Wendy LOOOOOOVES David Bowie. He is to her what the Smashing Pumpkins are to me. All the albums, all the DVDs, all the magazines. Her cat's name is Bowie. She has Labyrinth and The Man Who Fell to Earth memorized. You get the idea. This bitch is CRAZY about David Bowie...So when she found out he was playing a show in New Orleans (I was living there at the time) she called me up and asked me to try and get tickets. And being the crafty little devil that I am, I managed to land us in the very front row. The thing is, I didn't tell Wendy about it until the night of the concert. Up until then, I made her think we were sitting in the second balcony. "They're not great seats," I told her, "but they're in the center and we'll be able to see the monitors." (In a way, I guess you could say this was another practical joke I involved her in.) You really should have been there, dear readers. The look on Wendy's face when the usher tore our tickets and then walked us all the way down to the front is one of those sights I would never trade. It's the only time I've ever seen her utterly, genuinely speechless. (That's one thing you can always count on me for, dear readers. I'm never short on surprises.)

Bowie was a good 3 songs into his show before Wendy finally came out of her daze and realized that it was all real. David Bowie really WAS standing right in front of her. It wasn't some cruel dream. Then at one point he stood still long enough for her to reach out and put her hands on his feet (State Palace Theater has a raised platform stage). Remember that scene in The Passion of the Christ when Magdalene touches Jesus' feet and stares up into his face, totally awestruck? Yeah, Wendy's moment with David Bowie was a lot like that. (When she called to check on me after Katrina, she couldn't help but say, "Well, the bright side to all of this is that Bowie came BEFORE the hurricane hit." hehe)

Yes, we've had some good times, Wendy and I. For one such example, check out this clip from "Powerwalkin'" (a movie I shot with some friends during my second semester at Ole Miss). Wendy's pride was wounded when I told her she wouldn't have any lines and would basically just have to play dead, so she made me promise that her name would be more elaborate in the credits than any of the the other actresses. This is a terrible 3rd generation copy of this scene, but I think it gets the point across.



Three cheers for the best little ex-fiance' I've had so far. :)

#8 - Dane Ball: No Relation to Lucille

“So guess what I got in the mail yesterday? Only about the best damn late Christmas gift I've ever received in my life. Dude, that was fucking hilarious. That was the LAST thing on my mind, but...I just can't even describe it. I couldn't stop laughing for 15 minutes. Seriously, thanks for sending it. I am going to put it on tonight and see what 'cums' of it. HA HA.”

Thus wrote Dane Ball in an e-mail dated January 9, 2004. (Yes, I keep memorable e-mails. I'm sentimental like that.) The gift Dane was thanking me for in this particular e-mail was (obviously) a porn flick.

Now, I know it sounds strange that I sent porn to celebrate a Christian holiday. But what you have to understand is that this particular porn flick had (are you ready for this?) sentimental value for me, Dane, and everyone else in our circle of friends. Back in middle school, you see, Dane swiped some porn from a friend of his family. And, like any group of healthy 14-year-old boys, we all watched it over and over again until we knew every line of dialogue, every musical cue, and every irrelevant plot twist. The movie I sent to Dane was one of the Coming Attractions advertised before the Feature Presentation...You can see how it might have made him feel nostalgic to get a copy of it in the mail 10 years later.

Once – this is my parents' favorite Dane story – Dane crashed at my house (this is in middle school) and left a porn tape in the study. We didn't think it was that big a deal, because the study was basically my second room back then and there were all kinds of VHS tapes laying around all over the place. The chance of my parents discovering the porn amidst my mountain of movies seemed pretty slim. But wouldn't you know it? My mom decided to clean the house THE VERY NEXT DAY and went through every single one of the tapes. After I got home and frantically searched for Dane's porn for a good 3 or 4 hours, my dad casually invited me out on the back patio for a little chat.

“So, J,” he said, taking a drag from his pipe, “what movie are you looking for in there?”

I could tell he was fucking with me, so I just went ahead and admitted everything. “It's not mine,” I told him. “It's DANE'S!” (How's that for loyalty?)

Dad gave me the whole paternal spiel – “I don't want that kinda stuff in my house, especially where your mom's gonna find it,” blah blah blah – but it wasn't long before he admitted that it was one of his proudest moments as a parent. (To this day he makes fun of me for the terrified look I had on my face as I was searching in vain for the tape.)

When I told Dane what had happened, he was a little concerned and wanted to know what I'd told my dad.

“What do you think I told him? I told him it was YOURS and that I didn't even really wanna watch it all that much.”

“Oh fucking great, dude! Now your parents are gonna think I'm some kinda pervert!”

This prediction wasn't true, by the way. If anything, my parents enjoyed this little misadventure in adolescence, if only because it showed them that underneath his shy and quiet exterior, Dane is just one of the boys. Good times, good times.