Well, I have good news for those people: You should call it “fro-yo”.

Also, New Year’s is a good time to reevaluate you life life because it is a time. It’s completely arbitrary, and that’s what makes it work. All the best, most effective stuff is arbitrary. Take the U.S. Congress… please!

You’re probably thinking, “OK, Conlan. You’ve convinced me that New Year’s resolutions are a good idea. But—I’m embarrassed to admit—I don’t know how to make a New Year’s resolution. Can you help me?”

The answer is no, of course. I don’t even know you. (Or, if I do know you, I probably don’t want to know you. So the answer is not so much “no, I can’t,” but more “no, I won’t.”) But I can help you help yourself. Here is your recipe for success:

Ingredients

• 1 pencil with eraser (everybody makes mistakes!)
• 1 spiral notebook, wide-ruled
• 1 pack of 3×5 notecards, blank (for “resolution-storming”)
• 1 cupcake (for ritual cupcake sacrifice)
• 1 roll of duct tape (just in case)
• 1 garbage bag
• 1 butcher knife (for chopping)
• 1 large bottle of bleach (for destroying the evidence)

Directions

1. Spread out all the ingredients on the drafting table in your bunker.
2. Take off your pants (leave your underwear on). You can resolve better when you are unencumbered.
3. Assume the “thinking pose”: clasp your hands together, but with your index fingers extended. Touch your fingers to your lips. Alternately, if you have a beard, stroke it gingerly. I said, GINGERLY.
4. Think. Consider the different areas of your life (work, family, TV, Facebook, and breakdancing) and think about how you suck in each area.
5. Write down all the ways you suck in your spiral notebook (henceforth known as your Life Inventory Journal).
6. Think about the ways you can suck less in each area of your life (fitness, bathroom etiquette, shoe size, Chinese finger traps, and healthy eating) and then—here is the tricky part—write down these resolutions on the notecards (one resolution per card, please).
7. Arrange each solution notecard in a circle on your table.
8. Place your Life Inventory Journal in the center of the circle, and then place your cupcake on top of your Life Inventory Journal.
9. Violently smash the cupcake with your hand or hoof.
10. Chop something with the butcher knife.
11. Brush everything on the table (notecards, journal, smashed cupcake, broken dreams) into the garbage bag, and set the bag aside.
12. Pour the entire bottle of bleach all over the table.
13. Bask in the cleansing destruction.
14. Put the garbage bag into your escape chute and blast it off into outerspace.
15. Live your BEST LIFE.

And that’s how I help you help yourself.

Happy New Year, everybody.

It’s true Steve Jobs was no hero. But he was a visionary. He didn’t save lives, but he changed many for the better. For anyone who’s ever been affected by a song or a piece of art, it shouldn’t be difficult to understand why others feel an emotional connection to something that is, essentially, a “product” of someone’s mind. And it’s not difficult to understand why we also feel an emotional connection to the person who poured his heart and soul into that product. Steve Jobs didn’t invent the technologies we use every day, but he humanized them and made them accessible for millions of people.

Almost by definition, artists and thinkers don’t perform heroic or world-changing acts. But if your own personal world has never been changed by the vision of someone like that, then you should consider rebooting your cyborg brain (because, see, you may not be fully human). Steve always recognized and appreciated this gut-level sense of inspiration, and that’s why so many of us feel a sense of loss right now. But it’s also why—like all great artists—Steve Jobs will live on.

Take one of those dual-tube epoxy mixes and jam it up somebody’s nose (one tube in each nostril). Then discharge the epoxy up said nose. Theoretically, the two gels will meet somewhere near the back of the throat, thus initiating the chemical reaction that will harden the mixture into a solid, cutting off the airway and suffocating the victim.

Very clever, if only in theory.

Right now, I feel like the victim of such a plot. Except it seems the epoxy has hardened somewhere in my upper sinuses, blocking air to my nose, but allowing me to mouth-breathe for the rest of my miserable existence.

I’m exaggerating of course. In actureality, I just feel like somebody hit me in the face with a mallet.

P.S. I’m only talkin’ ’bout sinus pressure.

First of ALL «I want you to know I am alright.» I AM sure you have heard about the trouble that HAS OCCURRED, here, at the IFTRATOICAP: i have been told IT is on THE news. I have not BEEN able to confirm/this, because we HAVE BEEN (on lockdown) since the incident. i will EXPLAIN what happened from my POINT of view?

It was the second day OF treatment and—things were GOING well. My ROOMMATE Ben and I had: just finished a Shift/CAPS Lock exercise [technical term. That's WHEN we heard a loud. bang. sound coming from the CEILING! Dr. THOMPKINS came over the loudSPEAKER and ordered all patients to their ROOMS... as soon as IMMEDIATELY. He didn't explain. Why!

Naturally, ben and I (having lived in SAN Francisco) were of a curious and investigatory mind. So we, decided—to investigate. I said 'BEN. Let's go look.."... over there, I said. I was POINTING down the hallWAY. So WE snuck down «hands and knees» to see what was transpiring. When we GOT to the grand banquet ROOM, we PEERED! in through the tiny circular windows. I didn't, believe what I saw. It was Dr:THOMPKINS. and he was hiding under the BANQUET TABLE whispering harsh directives to the TWO nurses who were hiding THERE WITH him.

A bright light shined through the big PLATE-GLASS window and I HEARD helicopters. Black ropes slid down the SIDE of the building and MEN dressed in all, black, clothes. followed.

Somewhere at the other end of the corridor I heard a woman's scream.

JUST then, one of the nurses hiding under the table bounded towards the door where BEN AND I were standing. We quickly ducked TO THE SIDE, as the nurse [female] burst through the swinging doors into the hallway and passed us, sprinting toward the main RECEPTION AREA.

“This is getting strange,” Ben said. I NODDED {in agreement]}. My nod must have been very good BECAUSE it startled Ben so much that he stumbled backwards into the secret passage way. Then down the secret STAIRS. Into the ROOM that we—would later learn—housed DrThompkins illegal, hydroponic watermelon-growing operations. Then SOMETHING hit me on the head ++noggin++ and i blacked OUT?

WHEN i woke UP, i was in my ROOM with Ben. He explained that the feds HAD been tracking thompkins for decades, and the IFTRATOICAP was really just a front for his black market WATERMELONS. Needless to say, I felt betrayed, violated, and hungry for some juicy watermelons.

The G-MEN are finishing up questioning the patients and searching the GROUNDS now. WHEN they’re done, we’ll be released to go HOME/

I was disappointed that I did NOT get to finish my TREATMENT, but I am GLAD THAT THAT MONSTER won’t be able to GROW any more unsanctioned melons (present company excluded). ALSO, i don’t know if you… happened to: NOTICE. But… if you read back OVER my letter… I don’t KNOW if it was the adrenaline or the methamphetamines, but i do believe EVEN without finishing treatment:::: my condition IS cured

OH Sandy, I do miss you, I can’t wait TO see you;

sincere and tender nibblings,
Conlan

Tonight I arrived at the Institute for THE research and Treatment of Inappropriate Capitalization & Punctuation for my two-day, THREE-NIGHT TREATMENT program. I am GLAD TO REPORT that the, bus ride was smooth and UNEVENTFUL.

The staff was very helpful WHEN I arrived, directing Me to my—room and not MAKING fun of the way I filled OUT THE entry forms. My roommate IS NAMED Ben and IS from San/Francisco so we have “something in common”. Internet. ISN’T allowed here [for obvious} REASONS. So I will not be able to send THIS TO YOU until after my stay?

I think I! am GOING to learn a lot WHILE i’m here. IT IS NOW TIME FOR THE orientation session I have to go Until next TIME.

MY sincerest… regards,
Conlan

Last month I celebrated the one-year anniversary of leaving my lucrative job at a collapsing company to pursue my dream. My dream of not working there, and working somewhere else. I didn’t know it at the time, but I wasn’t going to work somewhere else. I was going to work nowhere else. Which, incidentally, also made it the one-year anniversary of not having a real job.

I know what you’re thinking: where’d I get these pants? JC Penney. How did I survive a whole year without a job? Easy. I just lived off my trust fund^[1]. I hear a lot of people complaining about the economy and not having enough money… Hey, Stupids! Use your trust funds! That’s what they’re there for! Using! So dumb.

Anyway, as you know if you’ve been following me religiously, amen, I became a PROFESSIONAL WRITER. Which, as you know if you’ve been following me agnostically, maybe?, means nothing, really. However, sometimes people do pay me to write things, because my words are worth money. (Yours are not, so don’t get ideas; it’s not just the words, it’s the order of the words—technical terms: syntax, diction, verbiage, sausage, gerund, past-participle—see? So, just forget it.) Also, if you are a company or something, and need words, I will sell them to you.

But my booming career is just part of my wild, wild Year One! I have also boomed in other areas. Like, for example, being popular.

Think of everyone you know… Got it? OK, now answer this: am I one of those people? Yes? Bingo. Popular! ‘Was a farmer had a dog, you know? That’s me. Bingo.

Needless to say, I’ve got a lot of cooking projects in the oven. They are warm.

I made buttons. There are all gone now.

Oh, P.S. Keep your look out for This is Podcast, The Official This is Conlan Podcast.

1. Financial Advisor: “I trust you understand me when I tell you, you have no money. At all. Get it?”

Then something horrible and expected happened. I became—as they say in Germany—”without the money”. Yeah, that’s right, I couldn’t afford two bucks a day. You people don’t get it, do you? When I say “I have no money,” I mean I have no money. I don’t mean I only have enough money to pay my bills with little left over for recreational spending. You people don’t know how lucky you are to live in America! Socialized medicine! You can’t handle the truth! Don’t ask, do tell!

I apologize. I got excited. I wish they’d invent some way to erase stuff on the computer. Anyway.

But I did have some credit on my old Starbucks card. Which is why I find myself back at my old haunt (idiom?). Many of the same people work here. My acquaintance is still here. It’s just as I remember it. Except for one thing: me. I’ve grown. I’ve learned to accept me for who I am^[2]. I’ve made buttons with my face on them.

“Large unsweetened black iced tea, please.”

“Can I get your name?”

“…Conlan.”

“How do you spell that?”

“C-O-N-L-A-N.”

“That’s an interesting name.”

It sure is.

1. Though I never told anyone the fake last name, I needed to create it—along with an elaborate backstory—in order to play the role effectively.
2. not really.

And to get back in the schwing of things, I’ve got something special: You asked for it. You begged for it. You scrawled it in blood on my bathroom mirror (nice touch, by the way). Well, here it is.

25 Random^[1], Completely True, Wonderful, Facebookian Facts About Me (Conlan). Starting… now.

1. Someone (maybe Ryan or someone) once said of me, only half-jokingly, “Such a man surely can’t exist in reality, but only in works of fiction.” I don’t remember why exactly.

2. I’m pretty insecure, but I try to hide it because I know people don’t like or trust insecure people. Along with that,

3. I think way too much. About everything. This makes me too smart. As a result,

4. I’m overly critical. Not in the nit-picky sense, but in the critical thinking sense.

5. Also, the nit-picky sense.

6. I can make people feel stupid because, as Ryan put it, I “may not like something and know why, whereas they may love it and can’t explain it. You outsmart people.” So it’s ironic that

7. I’m overly sensitive to criticism, and feel like an idiot so much of the time.

8. Sometimes I have dandruff, but I try to hide it because I know people don’t like or trust people with dandruff.

9. I tend to use antiquated phrases like “Gee whiz” and “raspberries!”, partly to be ironic, but mostly because I like to.

10. I rarely floss.

11. I don’t have tattoos.

12. I feel as if my body gets in my way sometimes. This could be because

13. I never exercise, which is undoubtedly a factor in my

14. Lack of upper-body strength and

15. Poor posture.

16. I think I sweat more than average. I know

17. I have an oily forehead and

18. A hairy back.

19. I go days without shaving (my face).

20. I don’t cook, but I’m a picky eater.

21. I’ve got mounds of credit card debt.

22. I don’t like manly things like sports or cars, but

23. I do like beer.

24. I can’t play a musical instrument, because

25. I’m a quitter. I start things and don’t finish. I tried to learn to play the guitar, but quit because

BONUS BIRTHDAY OVERTIME SECTION!!!

26. I have flat, short fingers, which made it hard to play.

27. I tend to focus on the negative.

28. I take anti-depressant medication, but

29. I don’t have health insurance.

30. I’m pretty sure I’ve got you figured out. But the joke’s on me, because

31. I haven’t got you figured out.

1. Facts may not be completely “original”, in that some of them may have previously appeared on now defunct blogs and/or Craigslist personal ads.

I was at Starbucks this morning because I had to get up early to finish papers for a million classes. So I’m sitting there with my coffee (and a water because I was thirsty, too) and I’ve got a bunch of photo-copied journal articles and my Child Development book and notebook on the table with everything. I’m listening to my iPod with these expensive headphones I bought that fit into my ears. I shuffle around some papers or something and, with the sounds of Broken Social Scene in my ears, my coffee goes tumbling to the ground, but not before leaving much of itself on my left leg.

At this point I probably said a bad word, but I couldn’t hear it because I had my headphones on. I try to take them out of my ears, but the stupid little rubber part comes off, lodged in my ear. I’m trying to pluck it out because I’m afraid it will get stuck in there and I’ll have to go to the hospital or something. All the while, coffee is seeping into my pants and onto the chair and back into other areas of my pants (the floor is covered with it). I give up on the rubber in my ear and run to grab a bunch of napkins. After throwing them on the ground, I have to go tell the workers that I spilled my coffee like an idiot. They were nice. They mopped it up and gave me another cup of coffee. I went in the bathroom to try to clean myself up. It didn’t work, but I did manage to dislodge the earphone piece from my ear with the tip of my pen. I sat back down at another table. I didn’t want to leave because I was afraid I wouldn’t finish my paper in time. I thought I’d have to go the rest of the day stinking of dried coffee with a big stain on my leg (luckily I was wearing brown pants). So I sat there for the next hour and a half, with napkins under my butt, feeling coffee-soaked fabric against my skin, writing a paper on Romanian orphans. It was great.

I did, however, finish with plenty of time to go home, throw my clothes in the washer and shower before going to class. That is my fun story of the only time I’ve ever spilled coffee at Starbucks. I figure, with how much I’ve been there, it’s a pretty good record.