There are two comic book references in this post. And one to Vietnam.

Due to the G’s aggressive disregard for my identity and ability to buy Zima Gold at Safeway, I was required to illegally motor to the DMV and acquire a replacement driver’s license. The Virginia version of that much maligned agency has gone under a massive service and public relations restructuring over the past decade and from what I hear it’s a forever less painful then a visit to its cousin across the river in DC. And even though it was nearing the end of the month, the day after a holiday weekend, it was all green lights and blue skies once I walked in the door. They only asked for one form of ID too, even though I brought twelve SSN I got from a hot VA laptop.

The biggest consternation of the day became the outfit I should wear in my new picture as I like them to be somewhat unorthodox. In the lost ID I sported a fancy black turtle and styled my hair so high that it actually disappeared out the frame. My college-era license featured a wondrous Bubble Puppy era Afro. Unfortunately, time and DC uniform restrictions limited much of what I had planned, so I opted for the Clark Kent disguise.

I greased up my hair with an entire travel sample bottle of L.A. Looks MegaHold and gave it a severe left handed part. Donned a conservative shirt/tie combo and broke out the new thick framed glasses. The picture lady may have suspected something was up, but who could argue with such a well-coiffed member of the Robert Strange McNamara School for Well Groomed Boys*. It was a haircut you could set your watch to.

It may be argued that altering your image in your most widely accepted form of identification is a poor idea. But I figure if I leave the Cain Marko prosthetic chin at home I should be alright. It’s subtle and hopefully not too confusing for my local barkeep or constable.

Besides, it’s nowhere near as bad as my old roommate’s license. The guy coaches high school cross country now.



That’s some quality wanted poster fodder.


*my new band's name.

Middlesex Pistols

Bands N Books

Almost as fun as reading this list, but not quite.

Somewhat related, at one drunken point in time, I think TR and I discussed opening a restaurant and naming it "All Up In EurGrille," and having 19 year old boys from Prague in skinny black pants serve paninis. I think.

Well, let's just say that I'm buy-curious.

You know it's all over when GOB’s Saw a Woman in Half illusion is up for auction. Of course, in 15 years when The Wedding Album’s series finale draws more viewers then the last episode of M.A.S.H, those TV execs will no doubt do a little jig on my grave.

No one’s allowed to bid on the fake gun with 2nd Amendment printed on the flag. That’s mine.

I forgot I set the bread basket on fire too

The Governess rose from her deathbed on Sunday just in time to drag me to a wedding of her old college chum. If you removed the part of the day where a man in a giant Ford 350 Monster Truck rear ended us on 66 with such force that all of the G’s Mission UK and Brinksi Beat CDs that were in the trunk ended up in the front seat with us, then it was a pretty good time. Also, you’d have take away the part where my lovely wife threw away my driver’s license, sentencing me to a morning at the DMV. Oh, and my wedding cupcake was too dry.

The day was okay. I guess.

But the wedding itself was a good time. Although the G knew the bride (and no one else) and I knew the G (barely) we were designated as the couple that helps fills out whichever side of the church had the least amount of family. And then at the reception we were banished to that oddball table near the dance floor where they hope us riffraff won’t cause trouble. It worked too, because when I leaned too far back in my chair I only crashed onto the reinforced faux wood dance surface instead of great aunt Helen’s ample lap.

I was hoping to be at the table with that one girl in the denim jacket with red streaks in her dyed black hair* but instead we sat with 6 middle and high school teachers. And even though several of them were younger than us we became the de facto children when I was able to explain the significance of this “4:20” thing one teacher’s junior class was so excited about. Another complained she often did not know what her students were slanging about so I volunteered my experiences as a wildly immature adult. (any links past this point should be considered NSFW)

Miss Bliss: For a math competition the class spilt into team and I let them pick there own names.
N’bob: Bad idea?
Miss Bliss: That’s what I want to know. One group called themselves “Team Dirty Sanchez.”
N’bob: It’s not really something I’d be willing to define by yelling across the table, but you should probably make them change it.
Miss Bliss: Okay. The other is “Team Cleveland Steamer.”
N’bob: (Grimacing) Same thing.
Miss Bliss: How about “Team Space Docking?”
N’bob: I’ve never heard that one. But there is zero chance it has anything to do with a Soyuz capsule.

But maybe it does.

Especially if Lance Bass is involved.


Jeez, I don’t even know what that comment's supposed to mean. But it cost $20 million to produce.

Mahalia & the choirboy

Best story I've heard in months.

dissatisfied 94% of the time

We went to a wedding this weekend. We did manage to set a linen napkin on fire, and also maybe some hydrangeas, but that was about it.

Best comment from the N: "I mean, sure, it was a fun reception, but it's hard to top that one wedding where I woke up at a petting zoo."

* * *

I'm like a toddler lately, learning something new every day.

Recent discoveries, Kiefer/Kevin/Christian related:

- Keifer tackles a tree.

- There is a Hollow Man 2*, starring Christian Slater.

Discoveries completely unrelated to anything but the fact that I spent 3 days of my 4-day weekend in bed:

- The kid from Home Improvement ran away to Maui to marry his 32 year old pink-haired girlfriend when he was 16. Also, to wear awesome sportscoats like yr grandpa has, and to grow a fro. Thanks, E! "Child Stars: Where Are they Now" special!

- (Related, kind of.)

- "Death Bed," courtesy the N.

Yet to discover:

- Where I can find summer clothes I will wear. Please to be explaining to me why everything is studded, glittered, pre-ripped, or otherwise adorned. And, if not studded or glittered, v. plain and simple styles but in all pastels and/or navy-n-white ensembles, making me feel as if Blaine-n-Chaz-n-I should really hop-to on organizing Yacht Day for the alums association. Also, I'm sloppy and a lazy eater and I spill. Fuck, dude, all I want are some new teeshirts. Maybe a skirt or two. Send help.






(*Worst movie I've ever seen: Hollow Man I.)

i'm almost good

Every single one of our neighbors owns a tiny dog. they are small and are carried a lot. Yesterday, during a spontaneous lunch-bbq-thing outside our back door, 3 of them romped about, oblivious to almost being almost killed in three separate bocce/croquet incidences.

I don't like purse dogs.

Also, I'm crotchety.

* * *

ALSO also we were in a car accident on Sunday, and I'm just now getting over Ebola.

After a storm/there must be a calm.

news on my bloglines courtesy JH:

Desmond Dekker died.

There was a point in time where I put "The Israelites" on every mixtape I made. I was 22, and living in the basement of a v. shady unemployed landscaper. (Along with DD, I also put "Dear Margaret" by the Rosemarys and the Lucas with his Lid Off song as side-enders. What can I say, I was a weird kid.)

Anyways, go find the Israelites. I'm sure its on the Internet somewhere. Yr welcome.

Happy Memorial Day! Thus far, I've celebrated by spending the past 40 or so hours in bed. Thanks a lot, Unbuckled. I think I caught the bird flu from you. Or maybe Ebola. Bastards!

DCist: Big Night Out

Deleted Scenes:

Say I got a job as a television writer, and did a remake of "Boy Meets World.*" (We're pretending, here.) It would so very certainly star the lead singer of Deleted Scenes.

Man, I love freaked out teenagers. Especially ones who spent their formative years in their bedrooms with "Emergency & I" on repeat.

Anyhoos, this is a band I could get behind. Indeed.

Georgie James:

1. I am about to girl the fuck out on you, so you can skip this if yr so inclined: If I wore pants like that, (white, tight, and with zippers across the ass) it would looks like I had four butt cheeks. The fat roll would start, stop at the zipper, and then start again.

2. Laura B. should be famous by now. The bass player wore a jaunty cap. Someone's mom was there, taking pics, and there is nothing I like more than moms at rock shows.**

3. Also v. good. Indeed.

Blogging Peeps:

All over the freaking place.

Beer:

Magic Hat.

Pygs:

Very sleepy.





* If I were still half-conscious, this is where I would interject several stories, the first and best being the one where a good friend of ours got in a fistfight at the Georgetown waterfront in the 90s with Ben Savage. Or something like that. Secondly, my bro just saw Topanga at a mall somewhere, FREALS. Anyways, nighty night.

** That's a lie. I like those individual Laughing Cow cheeses better. Man, those are a tasty snack.

nobody's business but the Turks

I've been playing a little here and there on Amazon's MTurk thing. I've offered opinions on self-tanners (ha), listed my favorite song lyrics, compared book titles. I think thus far I've made 5 cents. (seriously.) It kind of reminds me of those things that started happening right about the time I graduated from college, where "OMG you can so get paid for surfing the Internet all day!" If I recall, that didn't last long.

This, however, is a pretty awesome use of MTurk's power. Oh, sheepmarket, you got me. Bah bah.

The man knows his business

This is usually more something the Governess would cover but:

My mind is currently being blown by the sandwich I got a Galileo’s lunchtime grill. Chef Donna is manning the line himself and while I was carefully eyeing the menu, he just pointed at me and said “You want the pork shoulder sandwich.” He was so right.

This thing is unreal.

There is no line, so if you’re in the neighborhood, get over there.

cake and stuff

oops.

now THAT's more like it

on their way to redemption, those abrams and lindelof kids. it wasn't a brain-melting two hours or anything, but it got back to it's roots. Yay! i like my talky-box shows weird and funky!

Holstered

There was a Post article in the Business section on Monday on the proliferation of bank branches in the DC area. While I appreciate that there are three ATMs for my bank within 40 feet of each other in our neighborhood, that’s not that part of the article that was of interest to me. The accompanying picture shows the abandoned Appalachian Outfitters, which went out of business in 2003, as it now stands in Oakton on a piece of very valuable property.

In a time before Sports Authority and Target there weren’t too many options for the outdoorsy boys of NOVA to get camping gear. You could go to the Appalachian Outfitters or the Great Outdoors in Arlington or totally sell out and go to the Herman’s Sports chain. (Though it was at Herman’s that I realized it was much easier to buy those difficult merit badges than it was to earn them, sending me down this lazy path of unaccountability I’ve been on ever since.) But the last time I tried to go to Appalachian Outfitters completely ransacked and it looked like a tree limb had crushed part of the roof. And the last time before that they didn’t have anything that I needed and everything else was way overpriced. And now it’s going to be a Chevy Chase Bank or something. A bank with an 1890s schoolhouse in it. Or that’s at least what inferred from the article.

But what really caught my attention was a mention of the new Chevy Chase bank on the corner of Lee Highway and George Mason in Arlington. It mentions that the bank bought the property from a Friendly’s restaurant, one that had been there a few years. (like all Americans I toss around the term “worst ever” in inaccurate ways but the worst meal I have ever eaten was at Friendly’s. Good ice cream, though) The restaurant struggled for a few years before finally shutting down. It sat as rubble lot for a few months before Chevy Chase got their act together.

What is not mentioned in the article is that for years before Friendly’s a Roy Rogers sat on the property. And while the McDonald’s up the street received plenty of attention from the neighborhood kids, it was the Roy Rogers that was the center of social functioning. Maybe it was the Fixin’s Bar and the French fries you could wear on your belt that made it such a draw. Or maybe it was because McDonald’s hired moonlighting cops to arrest HS kids with droopy pants and Vuarnet t-shirts. Either way here’s a sample of what went down:

• It’s where the radio was hijacked and Smells like Teen Spirit was played for 2 hours straight in ‘91.
• It’s where a cashier was convinced that hand drawn coupons of 2 for 1 Double K burgers should be honored.
• It’s where their rather liberal loitering policy was abused even further by hours of drinking booze from Roy Roger cups, gambling and games of dice.
• It’s where that dude’s head was nearly severed in the parking lot when his friend passed out on the mechanical window switch and the guy in the back had to dive to the driver’s seat and use his hands to brake the car from rolling into Lee Highway.
• It’s where certain managers would allow walk-ups, bikes and skateboards at the late nite drive thru, as long as they yelled loud enough.

*

*

But there is some unpleasantness associated with the restaurant as well, something that always sticks in my mind whenever I drive by now. In 1992, night manager Sanford Swift was found stabbed to death after a robbery. Even though a detailed sketch and automobile description were released, no tips were ever called into the police. Hardee’s, who owns the Roy Rogers, offered a reward but nothing ever materialized.

When Friendly’s moved in they changed some of the architecture, but the overall building design remained the same. That similarity coupled with a few years of living out of town caused the incident to wane from my memory. But when the whole structure was razed to make room for the bank I started to wonder aloud several times about what ever happened with the case.

A few weeks back, I called the Arlington County Police and asked if anyone was ever arrested in connection to the killing. Days later they left a message saying that while the case was still opened they haven’t had any movement or tips in several years. They also asked that if I had information that would help moving the investigation forward, they would appreciate a call.

Well, I don’t know anything. I’m just an over-curious former Roy Roger’s patron with fond memories who just happened to get through to the right person at the police station. But if there is a small chance that someone reading this site does, the Arlington police are still looking for the killer of Sanford Swift.

the lazy bloggers guide to having nothing to say

Linksnstuff:

- More Lordi blow-up ("Arockolypse!")

- Noted: Other stuff to download.

- "But it's all over now, you beautiful losers.

- I have touched on this before, lots, but here's one more article.

- Awesome, comrades.

* * *

Other things I am thinking about:

- Worst job I ever had: working for a title insurance company.
- I made a dentist appt. Finally.
- Movies with John Cusack.
-

* * *

Big Apple:

For the first time in some years, we will soon have an ACTUAL HUMAN FRIEND-PERSON living in NYC. I do not count my friend Kiersten, who regularly moves in and out of Brooklyn squattings/gay dudes alcoves on Chris. St./Amy Sedaris' building's dumpster, because I cannot trust that if I say I'm coming to visit, K. will be anywhere to be found. I also don't count peeps in Jersey or LI, although I guess they are close enough. Anyways, I like suggestions.

* * *

Etc:

PS, last night was ridiculous. Not DRUNK-drunk per se, but I was using outside voice, and I kind of feel like someone may have knifed me in the stomach when I wasn't paying attention. Some people should just stay in Chicago. It's safer for all of us that way.

Not to mention some unicorn on zebra lovin'

Looks like the G is leaving it to me to do the weekend round-up. She touched on a few things…like dragons…and ninjas…

First off, happy birthday to the D. The big 20-something. And I don’t mean that I’m trying to cover up your actual age because I honestly don’t know what it is. I do know it’s 2½ year younger than me, but since I’m unsure of my own age… And we’re not making that joke we did in the beginning where we pretended we were 253 years old and British nobles.

JW threw a great party for her with all sorts of neat characters and too much food and stolen donuts replaced with hamburger buns with holes cut in the middle.

• There was a guy there who was more drunk than I have seen someone in a long time. 6pm after Foxfields, sunburned drunk. Let’s say he was more loaded than that side dish you can get at KFC that has all their side dishes mixed together, topped with gravy and a 3 cheese blend. So, you know, he was pretty gross.
• I used my outside voice too much, especially the time when a nice elderly gardening neighbor only heard my half of the inappropriate conversation.*
• There was a youngish party guest who commented on how attractive he though the D’s mom was.
• There was another guy there with an Oliver Platt t-shirt that would be great for my little baby cousin Oliver.
  

Except that it was actually the Blackadder. But a t-shirt with Oliver Platt wearing a ruff would be pretty boss.

Now for the smoothest transaction in blog history: We almost got killed by a black adder on Sunday. Having decided the best way to address the Mount Trashmore our house has become was to go see the Dragon Boat races on the Potomac. (We also may have seen a troll on Roosevelt Island.) The Governess was about to sit down on what she thought was some flotsam garbage when it hissed its displeasure.


IT WAS A LITLLE BIT FRIGHTENING! HE-YA!

As for the races, I don’t know much about dragon boats but I did row crew in JuCo so I’m pretty sure that all your oars need be in the water at the same time to get anywhere. The DC team had a hard time with that little bit of watercrafting and they got beat pretty handily by the team from Ottawa and then smoked by the crew from Taipei. Next year, DC Allstars, don’t invite those svelte college kids from Fu Jen University and their passionate red Under Armor uniforms.

But all wasn’t lost. To reward the masses for standing by in the snake filled grasses we were treated to a martial arts awesomefest.



I’m not sure if any of these cats were deploying the Tongbeiquan (or White Ape Fist) style of fighting or that if the theme to Mortal Combat is a required soundtrack to any public exhibition or if Easter themed silk pajamas are standard fighting uniforms. But I do know that their Kung Fu was real strong.

And I also think that this one guy with the Miracle Blade on a Stick was Tom Gugliotta.



Who knew that the Googs still had ties to the area?

*Although outside voice has been haunting me of late, I still feel the last two gaffs were not inappropriate. 1. Standing alone at the mall, examining the latest Gap fashions, I proclaimed “Fuck you, stripy shirts,” to no one in particular except that woman and her three children who were walking by. 2. After leaving the Science Bar, I proclaimed “Helllloooo, skanks,” through the open windows of Rumors to no one in particular except the skanks who were having drinks.

His name is on some of your monies

We lost the good Senator. Make sure you familiarize yourself with what will be the most overused phrase of the day.

"Senator, I served with ‘Blankety Blank.’ I knew ‘Blankety Blank.’ ‘Blankety Blank’ was a friend of mine. Senator, you're no ‘Blankety Blank.’

Very good, Washington, your humor still quite piercing. However, if you are to overuse a phrase from that area it should always be Brendan J Sullivan Jr’s:

"I'm not a potted plant. I'm here as the ‘Blank’. That's my job."

secret shows

Last night the Nats lost, I guess. The best part of the game was walking from the Metro, where we overhead several college kids in trucker hats (?really? still??) talking about how "dude, I think Anacostia is in Maryland, not DC." They started every sentence with "dude," and not in the way that yrs truly starts every sentence with "dude." The N. looked at me and said "are you thinking what I'm thinking?" The answer was yes, and we simultaneously quiet-yelled "My DAD owns A DEALERSHIP."

We left in the 7th inning, because the wind was whipping down the Stad-Armory plains and no one had hit Biggio yet, so I was kind of disappointed. Also, I learned the N. has never turned a double-play.

* * *

Here is what my legs look like right now:



We went on a walk through the woods Sunday afternoon. My dog and his evil fucking leash of death clotheslined me. Or whatever "clotheslining" would be if it involved cathing me behind the knees.

Sunday kicks off wedding season. I'm rather looking forward to the questioning looks, the odd whispers, and somehow working in a cheerful explanation to the grandmother of the bride: "we're into whips."

* * *

Other things I am "researching:"

- One

- Two

- Three

- Four (from sweetney)

- Five. If you've seen BWG cheaper somewhere, let me know. I only have it on tape, and I think it's cheaper at this point to buy the CD then to buy songs indiv. on ITunes or something.

join the club

Just because it’s Monday. Have I told you this one before? I feel like maybe I have:

I know I’ve at least mentioned Pony Camp before. Pony Camp was a “corporate learning seminar” I attended a few years ago on the company dime in order to further my career. I spent a good majority of my week at Pony Camp A) picking my jaw up off the floor, B) passing the Kleenex box to overly-emotional fellow attendees who considered this not so much "job enhancement" but more "group therapy," C) learning to pen cattle on a tiny horse named Chico (or maybe Chino), and D) all the while sneaking cell calls (CELL PHONES WERE NOT ALLOWED AT CAMP BTW, cell phones would get you nothing but a seat next to the counselor and diminished arts n crafts time) because I was in the process of QUITTING THE JOB THAT PAID THE GADZILLION DOLLARS TO SEND ME TO PONY CAMP because that was when I was on my way to being a Career Woman Goddamit (note capitals.)

Here’s a good mini-story-within-a-flashback: the first day of Pony Camp, our hippie instructor asked the class what they were afraid of (WRT: speaking to authority figures within the company when trying to implement a new communications strategy for either A) branding initiatives or B) employee recognition/HR programs) and a woman raised her hand and said “DEATH.”




I’m done. Happy new work week. You can go back to your desks now.

salisbury hill

We were flicking through TV last night and stumbled upon Vanilla Sky on Sci-Fi channel.

Describing Vanilla Sky to the N., who has never seen it:

- Okay, so there's this rich guy. And Cameron Diaz. And they are at a party, and Diaz is crazy, so she gets him in a car and crashes the car. And he wakes up and the city is empty? And maybe it's the future? I don't know. Anyways, she dies and he lives, but he's put in prison with Kurt Russell and also his face is all bunked up. And Penelope Cruz is his girlfriend, and maybe the movie takes place in two different time periods? Or maybe he time travels? And maybe he also kills Girl Cruz? Argh, I can't rememer. Anyways, all you really need to know is that this movie SUCKED. Oh. And at the end of the movie, it turns out he is part of some giant corporation experiment for eternal youth or something.

- Is that why he's wearing a mask? Because he has a baby face? Eternal youth? Seriously, did you even see this movie or are you lying, because there's no way a movie could have a plot like what you just described.

- Seriously. But who cares. It was a terrible, TERRIBLE film with a good soundtrack and a great trailer.

- Cameron Crowe.

- Ah.

* * *

Other things about my weekend: Dragon boat races! On Sunday! There were NINJAS there!

aol members, you never disappoint

holy BALLS, people. Want to know what happens when you google one of your favorite songs + the word "covers"? So blue. So very, very, very royal blue.


(Cure cover here. Warning: it's REALLY BAD.)

W.

A small note:

A year ago tomorrow, my family... briefly fell apart. I had just posted a pretty funny link. Five minutes later, I got a phone call, and then I left work to go stare at a wall for a few hours.

I’ve only held a gun once in my life: I was sixteen, I had mono, and I was shooting clay pigeons at Bull Run with a Mormon boy named Bryan who I had a crush on.

A year ago, my fiercely beautiful cousin may or may not have shot herself with a 9 mm Sig-Sauer. She was 24. We’ll never be sure what really happened (on that alone, I could spew out a rambling manuscript that would put "Man On The Moon Never Happened" conspiracy theorists to total shame). It's a gun I’ve looked up on the internet now approximately 700 times, because among my other more infamous mental circus tricks, I’m a glutton for self-torture.

We weren’t on great terms, and hadn't seen each other in at least 2, maybe 3, years; but I grieve for her: ripe with potential and humor and youth and love and anger and intelligence and great hair. I grieve for my aunt; my heart breaks at the flatness to her voice when we speak. I grieve because my husband never met her.

Today, for her, I might eat a candy cane. Download the Beatles "Across the Universe." Steal some perfume samples, kiss a redhead, make a moustache joke, buy a lime green sweater set, take a shot of vodka, wear heavy eyeliner, cuss like a sailor, look up some clips of "Alf" on the interwebs, and finally look into getting a fucking library card.

So, the pieces have been scotch-taped back together. She was wonderful in her own terribly difficult way, and after a year of telling myself that I don't really miss her, I'll now admit that's a lie. I am, we are all, just kind of, I don't know. Dealing.

The end. Back to pics of my dog, etc.

the media's crazy/people looking up and down

FRIDAY FRIDAY FRIDAY. My entire weekend involves hot dogs and lite beer. Hi, how are you?

* * *

I am so out of it on music, I honestly don't even know where to begin. The N bought the new Gomez? IS this the right place to start? Quick, if you are 18 and sport ironic hair and love bass lines, comfort me. I'm the one in the corner, anxiously flapping her hands like Nell or something.

I've recently started playin "Celebration Castle" on pretty heavy repeat again, but that's sooooo '05- like, TWIN CINEMA '05. What is good? What is new? Don't leave yr girl out of the scene. Don't keep yr finds secret.

In other news, Pat Arquette is on Regis right now and is looking disconcerting like Cruella DeVille, minus the trademark coat.

* * *

More other:

- excellent. tigers. yes. more.
- FFN Trailer
- Beirut + Design Plagiarism. (In other design news, much congrats to my MJ, the newest Raleigh AIGA pres. And a new homeowner, for that matter (!) (!))

Move aside, and at least let this man go through

What the G. neglects to mention in the post below is she’d already bought tickets for the DC show. Then she remembered her weekend’s already been claimed by another event in her series of future summer awesomeness.

She responded by trying to give the tickets away.

Both of them.

Including mine.

Out of spite.

Or out of whatever is like spite but meaner.

haughty moronic

hi. is it totally implausible to get up to Philly on a weekday night in less than 5 1/2 hours during rush hour? have you done this before? is it ridiculous to try and see the doughty show up there after working all day, and then drive from philly to get my weekend party on in beachland?

am I just trying to ROAD TRIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPP like I'm 21 again? it's okay, you can tell me the truth.

party at her place, yo

I guess it's one of those things that happens every year.

Happy birthday, D! I'm glad that they gods smirked down upon you and returned your recently stolen Jeep, just in time to celebrate another year older.

hold me close, my tiny handser

SUBJECT LINE: TINY

1.

TR and I have been discussing in-depth my newest obsession: Tiny Houses.

TR: SICK! I want one!
G: i KNOW. i could DRIVE TO VISIT YOU IN CHI-TOWN AND YET STILL BE HOME. also, it's awesome. I want the XS model, I think. it's the TINIEST. Tiny House would CURE ME of claustrophobia with it's charm!I love that "tiny house" Geico commercial from a few years ago.
TR: I think I could actually live in one of the larger "tiny houses."
It would suck for entertaining, though.
G: yes. all my parties would be picnics outside.
TR: "May I fix you a Sprite? Oh, I'm sorry, I can't, I live in a tiny house." I'm terrified. I don't know how to live anymore.
G: "Why didn't you pay income tax this year? but... but... I live in a tiny house. I am crippled by fear of everything. including taxes. And animals bigger than a pencil eraser. and Big Sky Country."
TR: Totally.
G: what if you built a MEGA tiny house. omg with a tiny moat. !!!!!

2.

Other IMs of note/goings on around teh DC-Metro area:

SB: also! some guy just walked by in a suit with a crown of roses on his head yelling "Peace love and rock and roll! i am the bride of satan!"
G: I SAW HIM YESTERDAY - NO LIE - HE WAS IN PENTAGON CITY - OH MY GOD. Well, if he was wearing a business suit and had a briefcase, he was totally the same guy.

3.

The N. and I had a mutual accquaintance back in ye olde glorious university days. Actually, he was one of those kids who was an accquaintance of the whole damn town - involved in everything, preternaturally smiley, and usually started sentences with some sort of half-jig/backslap/hug with a slight feel-up/high-volume "HEY GUYS WHATS HAPPENING SEE YA AT HAPPY HOUR BE THERE OR BE SQUARE, KNOWWHATIMSAYINBRAH!" He wore a lot of button down shirts. He painted his face for football games. He was a movie character, the guy who gets his convertible stolen by freaked out teenagers in John Waters Hughes-y* movies. Student Government, yo. Straight student government. **

(I'll interject here briefly- the term "douche" was used occasionally. Mostly under the breath. But really, truly, he had a great heart. I think.)

Boy, did he ever love hime some college. He loved it so much, he kept coming back. I shit you not, he had 3 majors and as many degrees that I KNOW OF. He wasn't the type who stayed around and took 7 years to graduate - he just kept coming back to graduate again, and again, and again, because he couldn't bear to leave.

He also had unnaturally small hands.

It became a running joke between a select few of us - the elf digits. The creepy handshakes, the fluttery little back pats during the ever-present hugs, the icky feeling you'd get when he'd put his tiny raccoon paw in the small of your back (also note: an inappropriate-small-of-the-back-toucher).

This is sounding cruel, I know. But there are other, more sordid details. The highly inappropriate attempts on friend's ladies, well beyond the signature hug-greeting. The reported plagiarism. The... evolution from a well-meaning, harmless guy who was - hey, actually fun to see occasionally - into a total prick.

I'll stop. After all, perhaps after graduation (#20), he changed for the better.

Anyways, that is all in the past. TH is getting married this summer. We weren't invited, because we havent seen him in a billion years, and uh - aren't really friends, anyhoos. But a gift*** has been discussed. If you'd like to know more about the most awesome, INTERNATIONAL IM brainstorming session to hit in recent years on the topic of "What The Gift Tag Should Read," just ask.



(* best blog-mistype ever!)

(** this guy is not to be confused with previously mentioned "Fearless Leader," (ref: the title of this entry) because there's relly no salvation for that dude besides a good smack in the head from a 1984 Volvo S40, if you know what I'm sayin, and I THINK SOME OF YOU DO.)

(*** 1 OXO slotted kitchen spoon with an easy-grip handle. I know, we're terrible, but it had to be done.)

Vikings are the new Ninjas anyway Part 4: The Final Episode (or the one where Q makes Picard travel through time in an effot to save humanity, again)

This is the last entry about our attempts at a proper ceremony for our leftover wedding cake. All that is fancy talk for Viking Funeral. Click here for episodes one, two, and three.

With the toolbox safely returned to the laundry room and only minor damage done to the coffee table, it was now time to figure out where and how this conflagration was to take place.

It needed to be large enough that if something went wrong there would be enough water about to splash on the inevitable forest fire I was about to start. But it also needed to be small enough to avoid the prying eyes of dog-walkers and the fire marshal. And we wanted to do it during the day. We opted away from our large local rivers and runs for the fear that they were too public. Plus there was a real concern of pulling a Cuyahoga and lighting 4 Mile Run ablaze and then have it down into the Potomac. That would make a good anniversary gift, a pair of silver handcuffs.

A few ideas for lakes or ponds were thrown out as well, including sneaking into Arlington County’s Outdoor Lab facility, but all these naturally involved sneaking into things. I am relatively unsure about the legality of any of this entire project, so if trespassing could be part of any potential indictment, we tried to avoid it.

Fortunately, a recent long distant dog walking junket revealed a small creek within several miles of our house. As far as I can tell, this stream comes out of a pipe, travels a few hundred yards - in a most stream-like fashion - and then disappears into another pipe. It doesn’t smell particularly bad and when I threw a match into it I was relieved to see it was extinguished relatively quickly. Nameless creek, you are a winner.

While you’d think lighting a thin, dry, wooden box on fire would be an uncomplicated task, I wasn’t willing to take any chances. Plus, the cake could have grown some sort of mutated fire fighting fungus. So before the G, the dog and I set out to ruin the fire department’s day, I made sure to pack every accelerant I could find into my man-purse. But after digging around the house the only things that I could find that made the claim of being “highly flammable” were a can of PVC glue and a bottle of bicycle chain lubricant. I figured as long as we didn’t take giant deep breathes while this thing was burning we’d be good to go. I also threw in a couple of cheap cigarette lighters.

And now, The Cake.



That’s it in the bottom of the boat. Even after 2 years, it was still moist and the frosting smelled sugary. But rest assured, there was no way I was going to taste any of it. There’s still some cellophane with a little bit of icing on it in the bottom of the trash if you’re interested. As mentioned earlier the orange, fake tan color and delicious fungus spots were not part of the original order. You can also still see the decorative whatevers on the side that we probably paid an extra $3000 for. And by we, I mean the G’s parents.

With my wonderful wife and worthless dog standing guard, I gathered a few sticks and dried leaves and made a little pyre. I was going to pour the fluid from one of the lighters to help get things started, but those damn things are booby trapped. As soon as the plastic was breached the fluid shoots out in a spray. Unfortunately, it all sprayed into the water. And while the G had been good back up until this point, she suddenly became some Ranger Rick/Smokey Raccoon-Bear hybrid (the kind the President warned us about) and became very concerned for the waterways of the Metropolitan DC area and the fish that reside in them. This fretting intensified when she saw my back up plan to the lighter fluid was to dribble PVC glue over the cake. “There’s a nature sign back there says there are salamanders and other amphibians around here. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I double checked that there were no salamanders hiding in the bottom of boat and continued.

Every thing was set for the flame. I eased the boat into the water, applied the fire, and watched as it promptly sank.



DAMN YOU KISSY BEAR! YOU HAVE SCREWED ME FOR THE LAST TIME!

It turns out the stuffed animal I was using as an approximate weight for the cake was too light. And these oars? Well, they do nothing. The boat didn’t sink all the way but the cake was certainly submerged. I pulled it into the shallow water, added a few more stick and sprayed it with the bicycle lube. The flame licked it up deliciously and engulfed the boat. Finally.



I made the mistake of trying to spray the last bit of lube onto the boat but all that resulted was the fire traveling up the stream into the bottle and then onto my hand. Instead of ending up like those kids who are burned with Silly String at birthday parties, I figured I’d just let nature take its course.

The dog freaked started flipping out at the sight of the fire and his barking was blowing our cover. So after everything burned down to the water line, we declared the thing a success and took the remains home. But since this whole escapade started because we didn’t want to merely throw the cake in the trash, I tossed the remains on the grill. There shall be nothing but ashes.

Here is where we finally get the results that I wanted. It’s also a Pyggy first: video.



Hello Daytime Emmy!

There you have it. A foolish idea carried out by fools. I hope in the future when historians examine the tradition of performing a Viking Funeral for your wedding cake on your 2nd anniversary they will acknowledge the idiocy of this site and the wasted time that went into its first earnest attempt.

"ny doll Johnny Thunders; once dubbed 'the Truman Capote of punk' "

blathering re: movies i rented this weekend instead of going out drinking and flirting in tight jeans, other activities many young women of my generation partake in:

I walked to Blockbuster Sat. night and rented "The Squid & The Whale," "Junebug", and "Capote." I was wearing a Champion sweatshirt and highwater jeans, so I may have walked to Blockbuster in some sort of 1992 time warp.

- "The Squid and The Whale" is pretty wonderful, probably would be even better if you are a child of Jewish Brooklyn bougie art-collector divorced parents, but I was raised in the VA suburbs with a family who loved "Doogie Howser" and a dad who you used secretly follow me to post-Homecoming parties in his minivan, so what do I know. Also, they've been married for 35 years. My parents, not Laura Linney and Jeff Daniels. The writer also worked on "Life Aquatic" (not surprising) and also Wes Anderson produced this, maybe? Also not surprisingly, Jeff Daniels is great as Every Professor. (But these are not really like any people I know.)

- "Junebug" was also good in a different way. I related more to it, because it is about people from the South and small towns who get knocked up in high school, and maybe a guy with Turretts. (These are definitely like people I know.) And Embeth Davidtz is freaking beautiful. Also, it stars the angtsty kid from Fox teen soaps as a guy who loves NASCAR, and also his place of employment in the movie is totally a real place!!!! Hi Replacements Ltd, how do I know about you?????? I can't remember.

- I still haven't watched "Capote."

Then the N. came in from his poker game and walked down the basement stairs and saw those movie boxes splayed all over the floor and said one small sentence, a sentence that nicely wraps up our marriage - "you and I rent very different movies" - but he sat down and watched the ending of the TS&TW with me anyways, even though it didn't have any of the following: vampires in latex, ship battles, sword fights. Or car crashes.

So, thanks, guy!

Oh, and speaking of movies.

ASKBHGYGDHB S* gfdskh zlkxd Aj

More on Season Crapale:

1. PROM. ARE YOU JOKING. THAT IS SOME JIVE SHIT.

2. The only character I really felt any connection to at all was the dog*, and they killed him. Coincidentally, it was also the only time I teared up.

3. The Nabob: "If you are having sex in a hospital room and yr wife and honey are upstairs, then you are NOT HAVING SLO-MO SEX. YOU ARE HAVING VERY VERY VERY FAST SEX. This scene is not realistic."

4. You know what's not realistic? Prom.

5. They did use the new Gomez song. That was nice.

6. Do you think Shondaland can refocus this entire show to be about Bailey and Addison, and can everyone else becase their characters can suck it?

7. Katherine Heigl: My First Prom Barbie.


- - -


Quick, someone get me to talk about something else. I am um. A blogger who recaps TV shows. And not in a fun way.

Prom. Okay, I'm done talking about this. Who wants to go to the Grog & Tankard tonight, and witness some people try to recapture their youth via awkward conversations about touring vans? Anyone? Anyone?



(* oh my good freaking god. yes, i comprehend that the dog is not so much a SIGNIFICANT part of the series. noted. what I am saying here is that he is a BETTER OPTION to root for than some of these other characters. for me. because i talk about the little people and little dogs in the television set as if they are real entities. people. work with me here.)

fanatomy

oh fuck it all. Uncle, already. I tried to pretend I don't watch this thing, but I can no longer tell a lie. To the total disgust of my husband, if you need to find me tonight, I'll be chained to my (DAMN IT ALL TO HELL) television, watching whiny soap-docs bitch about their love lives, and hopefully kill off some people, too.

Season Finale Fever, Catch It!


(Additionally, if anyone knows a good midday dog walker, we need one. BD is on the warpath. Thus far, only lampshades and furniture have been in his path of non-walk destruction, but I'm fearing for Captain Kissy Bear's safety.)


(Additionally 2.0, RIP Grant McLennan, who died on May 6.)

Vikings are the new Ninjas anyway Part 3: Make a little birdhouse in your soul

This is the continuing saga (a word of Icelandic origin, by the way) of our attempt to give our wedding cake a proper Viking burial. Here are Parts One and Two. This one is going to be a little boring. The fire comes tomorrow.

The first step in this bird house to Viking ship debacle was to figure out exactly what a Viking ship looked like. The second step is to decide that there is no way this thing is getting a sail*. The third step is to turn on the Sci-Fi channel because they show the 13th Warrior about 90 times a weekend and it features some good Banderas on Grendel action. The final step was to gather the tools and start screwing this up because there was a very small chance it would be successful.

Using a small hand saw I removed the front wall off my little pseudo-duplex bird house. (It didn’t occur to me at but this house is impractical for a bird. It has two front doors, but there is nothing separating the entrances. A sparrow entering the top hole would just fall down to the second. Unless this bird could somehow fly, which is just crazy.) The cheap pine, or whatever this is made of, was too weak to handle any real manly sawing, so after a few unsuccessful delicate strokes I just grabbed the manliest of tools and started hammering with inexact whacks. Amazingly, this thing started to look a lot more boat like.

Time to test its floatability again so I drafted the one toy the dog hasn’t eaten. Kissy Bear climbed in and set sail.


That’s CAPTAIN Kissy Bear to you.

Success. Next I removed the overhanging parts of the roof to give a more sleek appearance and better mobility in the water. We want this to be less like a D-Day landing craft and more like those boats that zip up and down the Jersey shore in the summer. This will no doubt be a fast moving craft that will exude manliness. And for no other reason than Kissy Bear’s penis is really small, just like those guys who zip their boats up and down the Jersey shore. It was still a little too Volvo-like so I sanded down the edges to give it more curves. They’re far from symmetrical but they work.



Next we needed the signature Viking characteristic: the Dragon Bowhead. I don’t have the proper skill set to carve my own so I had to go back to AC Moore and see the options available to the type of people who want to put lady bugs on everything they own. (it seems to be their most vigorous market.)



I don’t exactly know what these are supposed to be used for but I felt they would serve my purpose. That’s an elk, caterpillar, brontosaurus (or whatever they’re called now) seahorse, and a tank made of flat, thin particle board.

I didn’t think the caterpillar would be striking much fear among the soon-to-be-pillaged along the Upper Volga. And if I have one fault, it’s that I’m a slave to historical military accuracy, so the tank was out. (Though it would have been awesome) The elk was of a like climate but didn’t seem tough enough. And while the dinosaur was the closest when it came to Chinese farmers digging up dragon bones 300 years ago, the brontosaurus’s head was too globular. So it took some imagination, but the seahorse head wins it. I tacked the elk head on the back for whatever reason. Let’s say it represents the Nordic noble spirit.



Though I’d given up on making a sail I felt it still needed that last little touch that would make Odin proud. At the crafts store I picked up some wooden clothes pins in the hope I could glue them on as oars. This turned out to be a huge hassle and quickly gave up. (But not before momentarily gluing the ship to the table. Naturally I would have had to throw both in the river to be burned together had I not been able to separate them.) Ever risking the destruction of this entire project, I decided to drill holes and force the pins in. Again using Kissy Bear for the approximate weight for 2 year old piece of wedding cake, I noted the water line and drilled 4 holes about in inch higher. They were a little small but with some more sanding I was able to get them in.

And so finally, I tested her again.



Oh yeah. Tomorrow, I hope you have 911 on speed dial because we’re going to burn some shit up.

*I also found a report some college kid did on Vikings and he/she referenced a book of sci-fi fiction, which I am very familiar with, as historical fact. So busted.

Vikings are the new Ninjas anyway Part 2: The Toy Palace of the Children

After some extensive research, I have discovered that the two most important ingredients for a proper Viking funeral are a boat and fire. My history as a reckless American boy with matches and a blowtorch demonstrates that I will have no problem with the latter. But where are we going to get a Viking boat? Besides calling Fred Smoot!

(DAMN! I DIDN’T JUST GO THERE DID I? ONTERIO SMITH’S WHIZZINATOR! MIKE TICE’S SCALPING HIS SUPER BOWL TICKETS! IT’S JUST TOO EASY!)

Anyway, back to Viking boat. I first tried Toy’s ‘R’ Us hoping that at the very least they’d have a plastic model I could build and get high off the glue. But they barely sell models anymore, especially boat models and specifically flammable Viking ships. They do sell The Simpsons Boxed Set #2: Ironic Punishment, for some reason, and the Star Wars CUSTOMS Darth Vader Imperial Chopper, which is just a damn shame on every level. They do have RC boats for around 50 bucks but they seemed too expensive and poisonous to burn in an open water supply. I even started down the Barbie aisle in the hopes they had a Dreamboat but that part of the store is so pink it was overwhelming. I can’t even handle the pinkness of the Victoria Secret’s at Tyson’s and according to local news reports they have mannequins in sexually provocative and ungodly poses.

Leaving the R’us empty handed, I considered driving to that high end toy store near my old place, called Der Spielzeugpalast der Kinder or something, that only sells doll houses and carved wooden ducks made in Denmark. But again I was worried about the cost of destroying of an exact oaken replica of the Lusitania, the one with brass inlays around the smokestacks. I also considered going to the Home Despot and buying a huge block of wood and carving a little boat myself. But I doubt this was something I could accomplish in one attempt, with one railroad tie, in one weekend. Starting today, I could possibly finish it by our 3rd anniversary but this cake needs to die now.

Fortunately, there in the shopping center complex was a store called AC Moore: Arts Armageddon and Crafts Revolution. I’d never been inside one but I know it’s where family members went when our dog ate my cousin’s new Christmas present dollhouse. If they sell tiny roll top desks, maybe they sell tiny boats. Unfortunately, they don’t. But fortunately for a high powered corporate executive who thinks outside the box like myself, they do sell unfinished wooden birdhouses. Bingo.



But will it float?



Jackpot. Ladies and Gentleman, let's break out the tools. Project Viking Cake is underway.

player hayden

One year ago today, apparently I started this blog. Thanks for the reminder, dude! I decided to celebrate by taking the day off. Have you BEEN outside? The world has to be ending tomorrow, because holy sweet hellness. It's the happiest weather. It's such good weather, that I just had a fifteen minute conversation with a total stranger on the streets of Old Town. She was wearing a "Married to the Sea" teeshirt and had sweet tats on her forearms.

Anyways, sorry I've been gone lately. There's been some Annual Jobby Meetingness to attend to. I'm done now, and I'm back to my incredibly dirty home/officestead, and I'm planning on taking the summer off to play in the sprinkler.

* * *

Kind of late and def. off-topic: I would try to add something interesting to the Hayden spew here, but honestly, I don't have much. The best I can offer is some totally boring, non-lurid tales of carelessness.

In a past life, I worked for a bombastic Italian man who was on the board of several billion organizations. Somehow, I was on his radar as a total schmuck: young, single, kind of bossy, energetic, and best of all sporting an unusually high security clearance (like I said, a lifetime ago.) Somehow, for several years in a row, I was roped into program coordinating a v. specific conference, in a v. specific city, where Hayden graced us all with his presence as a speaker. Or panelist. Whatever.

You can google it. He apparently was on the agenda for this spring, too.

This conference is a pretty minor affair, as these kinds of conferences go, but the good ol' boys network is/was veryveryvery strong. It's a chance for a bunch of old AF buddies to get together in nice weather, drink a little bit, talk a little shop, and have a golf tournament, where I was an exceedingly awesome beer cart driver.

(Hayden never played golf.)

But I do remember arranging tickets for him to watch a parade (besides my father: is there anyone who doesn't love a parade? Fact: my old man HATES parades), and secured him a dinner reservation at a restaurant that served a fierce cactus margarita.

Also, a sort-of kicker: at one point, I had his day planner. Which he forgot on a table somewhere in the convention center. Retrieved later by a very petite security detail, tiny but nevertheless armed. Big gun/little woman.

So, there you go. My brush with Hayden, and his dayplanner, before the years of PDAs, I guess. Maybe he'll be more careful with, I dunno, big important documents.

(And OH MY GOD does he look like Red, or what.)





off to play kickball with the neighborhood kids. later, office chumpolas!!!

Vikings are the new Ninjas anyway.

I was informed shortly after getting engaged that it is a tradition for the newly married to save the top tier of their wedding cake. A year later, they are to consume this cake for good luck or to enhance virility or some other nonsense. Like everything else involved with the planning of the wedding, I quietly nodded my head in agreement and obeyed the orders of fiancé/mother/mother-in-law. Fortunately, as I was in little condition to save anything, someone put the cake in a little box after the wedding and transported it home. It may have been the box that was booted across the parking lot by a tilted guest.

Smart cake handlers, like my parents-in-law, would store this prize in a sealed,air-tight container and then pack it in the freezer. Not smart cake ruiners, like us, would store this prize in a drafty, ill-wrapped piece of cellophane and then dump it into the crisper next to the beer and giant bottles of condiments. (Which will never be used cuz ketchup is gross.) Fortunately, for the first year of its confection-ated life, our little cake baby stayed with grandma and grandpa. Last year, on our paper anniversary, we cracked into the Tupperware and delighted in its frozen, if not a little stale, goodness. This sacrifice surely means good luck will be on our heads for years to come.

(I assumed that this entire practice was some manner of fate massaging that’s meant to bring good fortune to the couple. Apparently this isn’t so. The story behind squirreling away of part of the cake was less of an attempt at good luck and more of a scheme to save a few bucks at a child’s christening. A christening that would have occurred a year (9 months + 3 months) after the wedding night’s consummating. “Hey! There’s no need to make a new cake for the baby’s latest sacrament. We have a perfectly good, year old one right here!” It now holds no real purpose for today’s Vizsla-owning, baby-hating super couples. According to this website on wedding cake history, it now merely “serves as a very pleasant reminder of what was their very special day.” Pleasant reminder! Great!)


Because the levity surrounding our one year anniversary was so overwhelming, the G and I were not really aware that the remaining leftover cake had not been thrown away but instead placed in the backseat of our car. It seems father-in-law no longer wanted it taking up room in the freezer. Cake made its way into our refrigerator, now in the drafty, ill-wrapped piece of cellophane mentioned above. And that’s where it’s lived for another whole year.


Hi cake.

Cake wasn’t orange originally. Nor was it covered in green fuzzy dots. Cake has certainly suffered in our hands. (or crisper) But we felt that just throwing it away was a disservice to all its hard work of serving 50 of our friends and 300 of our parent’s closest friends. What to do with Cake? What would be a suitable tribute?

Hopefully the answer is as obvious to you as it was to us. This Cake needs itself a Viking funeral.

Stay tuned in the next few days as we document the cake’s trip from the crisper to Valhalla. It will reside there eternally with the line of its family going back 1000s of years, escorted by valkyries, dining on the finest meats and daily doing battle with other cakes on the fields of Asgard.

This is not a joke. I have the hammered fingers and singed forearm hair to prove it.

girl, PLEASE

i am so sick of hotels.

Our guidance counselor was wrong about this too.

Hey B,

Remember that party I threw a couple years back when I still lived in Arlington? Fun times. And we all got pretty blasted? You were still there when the keg was kicked, right? And we broke into the moonshine the The D brought back from school? Oh man, that was great. We called you cab so you could make it home safe but you knelt down behind my old truck to boot and he didn’t see you? Then he drove off and when we called the cab company they wouldn’t come back? You said you were going to walk home but we wouldn’t let you because it as at least 5 miles, so we had to call another cab company. And then you passed out in the front yard, so that cab missed you too. I found you at 4am in the bushes and dragged you by your feet into the house and you slept on the floor. It wasn’t easy because you’re 6’5” and one of your shoes came off. Remember all that?

I certainly do. But I didn’t tell the background check investigator who came by my office to interview me about your security clearance any of it. Even when he specifically asked if I had ever known you to abuse alcohol.

You lucked out too because the investigator was a retired Fed and worked with my grandfather back in the good old days of the Company. We spent most of the time talking about him. It also means we never got around to that time a priest had you arrested in church for passing out drunk in the pews during a Mother’s Day service. But he probably knows about that already.

I don’t know why you put me on your list of character contacts.

Love,

The N.

It was at Sweaty Guy and Spam's house! And our fearless leader was there!

The thing I was doing that made it so I could only update about once is week is over. And I have about a million updates that are on backlog. Real quick, knock some out.

Item! Anniversary dinner: At 9:43am yesterday, the better half (or fourth) of this site posted an entry that indicated that it was our anniversary. At 9:44am yesterday, I figured I better make dinner reservations. Called a small, well regarded restaurant and acquired a 7pm table for two. No problem, she said, we’ll call you if there are any issues. But upon arrival at 6:55 we're informed by the front desk that there is a significant problem for the restaurant is closed on Mondays and they don’t understand how anyone could have taken our reservation.

In fact, the restaurant burned down 10 years ago! 10 years ago, this very night! And the woman I spoke with died in the fire. And they never found her body! And when I redialed the number I from my cell phone the message said it was no longer in service! And when we went back to the car there was a hook stuck in the door handle!

OK. That last graph didn’t actually happen.

But the restaurant indeed was not open on Mondays and the front desk indeed did not know why the morning shift would have taken our reservation. They were very apologetic though, and offered us several dining option in the neighborhood within walking distance. When we agreed on one, they called ahead and secured us a table. The dinner turned out to be quite good, but not great, and the evening was far from ruined. Although I had tried my best.

---------------

Item! The cell phone conversation I would have had with myself if one of me had access to a computer in my car on Saturday afternoon:

I swear I just saw a peacock run across the GW Parkway on Saturday near Turkey Run Park! Yes yes, I know that there is a better chance that I saw a turkey run across the street at Turkey Run Park but the thing had green plumage and a long tail. Though it may have been a peahen instead of a peacock. It was at least a peafowl of some kind. Or it could have been a roadrunner. It was going pretty fast.

Huh. Now that I’ve just wiki’ed what a peacock looks like I’m leaning back toward turkey because there was no way what I saw looked that ridiculous. But at least this is proof positive that Turkey Run Park is still the home of some manner of large, running bird. Maybe it was a cassowary. But most likely it was a roc or rhea or one of the other fake birds that Will Shortz makes up for crossword puzzles.

---------------------

Item! The G failed to mention that we went to the most bumpin’ party EVAH on Friday night. It took place in Arlington and rocked like 1999 and I don’t mean that in a Prince-y way but in a way to suggest that there were 500 people there and the streets were closed down and the cops showed up and the fuzz popped it. So it was just like 1999 in college except the cops probably didn’t have riot gear like they routinely did when I was in school.

Other ways is was like college:

• There were acres of people play flip cup and beer pong.
• There were a lot of 22 year olds with orangish skin.
• There was terrible keg protocol.
• There was a gril crying in the street cause her BF wasn’t paying enough attention.
• There were crotchety townies who called the cops when they caught someone peeing in their yard.
• The G got hit on as soon as her date went to get her more beer.
• I sold K out when I told the guy hitting on the G that although she was married, K was single. And my tone implied “desperate.”

Ways it was not like college:

• There was a loaded handgun found under the deck the next morning.
• Said deck did not collapse on the wrestling team.
• I was accused of being Eire-insensitive when I announced the arrival of the paddy wagon.

And there was a sense of things being circular this weekend. The last time I actually took flight from the police was from a high school house party in Fairfax. On the way out, a large TV was knocked down the stairs and busted up pretty badly. I didn’t know the person who was throwing the jam, just a friend of a friend who went to private school, and only found out later that the house’s real owners were friends of my parents. A decade later that friend of my mom’s hosted a wedding shower for the G. A wedding that celebrated its second anniversary last night and no TV was broken.

Hmm. That’s not really circular. It’s more roundish and lumpy with a slow hissing leak. Like a pogo ball if you take the plastic ring off.

Item! Stay tuned! For tomorrow I will begin setting Icelandic-Pygmalion relations back 500 years!

no more bitching about my allergies this spring

(um. WHOA. via kottke.)

I'd buy that for a dollar

Remember that time in Dead Poets Society back in the 70's when Eric Forman wanted to go into acting instead of being a doctor so Robocop threw his dad "Red" out that window but couldn't kill him because it was against Directive 3 (to uphold the law) and because he was President in a time when the Federation and the Klingons were attempting peace negotiations in Undiscovered Country? That was so sweet.

And now Kurtwood Smith is going to play the new CIA director? This man may be the greatest character actor our generation has ever seen.

for a million years

(Can I get in any worse of a mood? It’s unfair. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I will dance a jig of unadulterated joy when this week is finis.)

May 8 is usually a pretty decent day. Lots of good things happen on this day. My friend from kindergarten, Valerie – it’s her birthday. I remember that always because today is also my grandmother’s birthday. Had foul-temper been the secret to everlasting youth and seat-belts been paid more attention to in 1984, the cold-as-ice Grande Dane (from whom I get an ever-present forehead wrinkle – thanks GENETICS!) would be 97. Mind-melding.

Grandma Nete made truckloads of spritz cookies with fruit-jelly-centers, a relic from her Iowa housewife days. She was constantly pissed about something (anything), and liked watching pro-wrestling on TV. Also she watched Senators baseball on TV, with the sound turned all the way down, and the radio turned up because everyone knows that TV baseball announcers are total shit. I have other great memories involving her, but I’ll refrain. Basically, had you met her, Internets, you would have met Future Me; and I miss her.

# # #

- If you were to ask him what he thought of me when he first met me, he would say I was too quiet and wore overalls- neither of which were total dealbreakers, persay, but those things def. made me … questionable. (I am not even joking when I say overalls, dude, I owned formal ‘alls. Gray velvet.) Also, he was dating a v. short girl who I think was in ROTC. Luckily for him I had a great ass back then, and his Option #2, a girl named Julie with a body to die for, turned out to be crazy. Actual insane, straightjackets, etc.

- If you were to ask me what I thought of him, I would say he was cute, if you liked JOCKS, but I was busy polishing my roommates Docs so I could wear them to studio the next day and hooking up with a guy who kind of reminded me of a Chihuahua, but wrote LYRICS ABOUT ME IN HIS NOTEBOOK DURING SOCIOLOGY CLASS, and reading a lot of AS Byatt and listening to the Rachels and experimenting with eyeliner, so get back to me later. The next school year, he DID get back to me. And I was (mostly) over that brooding phase.

I also (think) I know the first moment he thought of me as real, honest, serious-stick-around-bona-fide-G to the F potential (correct me if I’m wrong?) I was in the TV lounge of my dorm. I was working as an RA, and I was on “building duty” that night, and instead of doing my rounds to make sure the baseball team wasn’t smoking up again, I was watching the Simpsons. He had stopped by just to say hi. Somewhere in that episode, there was a Stephen Hawking joke in the dialogue, and I laughed. And apparently, that was the first time this kid had met a female who knew who Stephen Hawking was, or at least well enough to laugh at a joke about him.

So, in conclusion, I am still very glad I married him, although if we were to go through that circus again- let’s just say I would have taken into DEEP consideration skipping the childhood-religious-upbringing-thing and made it legal in Augusta’s James Brown Plaza, if only for the photo op. Oh man, can you imagine? Best wedding shots ever.

(happy anniversary.)

One post, two “wooos”

On a Sunday afternoon, my office building is filled with lawyer-dads in cargo shorts and baseball caps, filling the elevators with lawyer talk, something about blah blah weather is so nice out and they are blah blah subpoena blah? I don’t really know. I do know that I am at work, mostly to avoid PULLIN AN ALL-NITER-WOOOO tomorrow, the day before another big travel/meeting/thing. Apparently, my job only really occurs april-june, and the rest of the year I can lay by the pool and eat Ho Hos.

They also turn he AC off on the weekends. My office is top-floor, so right now the part-time co-ed secretary and I are considering stripping to our skivvies. It is, no shit, 89 degrees up in here. GIRLS DONE GONE WILD COPY MACHINE FAXIN’ STYLE WOOO!

* * *

I played a very short game of softball yesterday, then got all my hair cut off even more. Very, very short. Very blonde. I am a ten-year old boy now, towheaded from a summer of playing made-up games in the neighbors yard.

I also saw the Cezanne exhibit yesterday, in the nick of time. It was very pastel and crowded. Then we started eating, starting with guac and margaritas, moving onto cheese fries at the Saloon as the group grew. We picked up peeps here and there, (the Pied Pipers of DC!) making a nice cozy table of talk by the nights end. Also, we were contemplating the total annhilation of the Potato Trifecta - Pilar Tots, Ben’s cheese fries, and Saloon Tato-skins. It didn’t happen, but soon. I mean it.

OH. And go read this article. Tom’s already mentioned it; the N. and I also had a brief conversation regarding this business this weekend, but I have a lot more thinking to do on mining robots.

Last but not least, the N. spent a good chunk of this weekend sanding and glueing a birdhouse for not-bird-sheltering activities. Report to follow tomorrow. And maybe pics.

whats the story, morning glory/washington post online?

feeling better. sorry.

hey, go read about one of my favorite places!

i am so going there after school today to buy some gardening supplies, start experimenting.

I apologize for the headline of this post.

Update, unrelated: courtesy Seeking Irony. "Every Little Counts" was included on every mixtape I made in high school.

BAH. BAHHH!

complaint factory:

(so. whiny. this AM. i am working on a can of coke and two hours sleep, tops. I own a dog who has decided to turn ROTTEN-TO-CORE the past few days, including eating A LAMP (?!?!?!?!) and part of a chair leg, as well as his usual daily intake of basket (he's been working on eating a basket, where we keep outdated magazines, for the better part of 6 mos. now.) In the neighborhood this morning, I was the lady in the 2-days-unwashed hair, jeans, dress shoes (?), a 29-year-old teeshirt (true), a dirty fleece vest, and a grimace. If I bared my fangs at you, apologies.)

celine dion is goblin king as hell

Labyrinthitis? Awesome.




now that you mention it, the resemblance is a little eerie. (just add blond extensions.)

BAH DUM DUM. Thanks, stick around for the 11:00 show. Tip yr waiter. Etc.







(listen, lack of blogmaterial may have brought me to the "let's make fun of Celine Dion and her probably very real illness level," but at least I didn't make the mistake of thinking she was black. Life is good, work is keeping me busy. I'll see you in mid-May with posts that aren't pulled out of my ass/composed of screen shots of Pepsii Riley.)

I search RnB on Allmusic while I'm waiting for press releases to write themselves

dear god, why did you not intervene at the moment i was born unto this new world and make my parents name me Pepsii. A girl wantz her knowledge.

okay thanks bye.

-Eesta

Best thing I heard this weekend: "You know what I don't care about? Blogs that are composed of people's OPINIONS." *


# # #


- I know, I am so late on this. but it's GIANT CRAP, made from SMALLER CRAP! Neat! Also, I hate the word pimp, but I love the word snack. Also 2.0, I'm an unapologetic anglophile. ALSO 3.0, my dream job is in Old Town (OTA, who's motto should be "America's Home Fo' the Non-Profit and/or Trade Association!"), and it is doing trade shows and marketing for the Snack Food Association. My resume is updated, SFA!

- For people like me, who have no fucking clue about meatstuffs: purchasing.
The ingesting part is easy, though.
. . .
I have now set myself up now for a tsunami of jokes. Bring it.

- Want to see something awesome? Here. Remember that Seinfeld where Kramer decides to get rid of his furniture and build his apartment into lots of different levels? Remember in elementary school when yr crazy art teacher with the closet-drinking problem (alternatively, think Molly Shannon as crafts counselor in "W.H.A.S.") would make you all draw "Your Future Dream House" and it somehow always involved a slide/rope ladders/bunk beds/indoor pool/hovercraft car ports?

- The kitchen remodel continues, as I cannot get my shit together and don't remember the name OR the phone number of the dude who called me to set up a time to come measure our existing countertops, I am a yuppie that should burn in hell already???? Fact.

- I'm just getting around to the WSJ's lovely little piece that should have been titled "Damn, Gurl, Men are Totes Monsters and Womens are Dumb If'n They Don't Learn How to Just Deal with It Already OMG." Hi, Naomi. It's me, your conscience. Here a thought - why don't instead we all just TEACH PEOPLE NOT TO RAPE, AND NIP ALL THIS IN THE BUD. Why don't you NOT BLAME IT ON FEMINISM just, oh, BECAUSE. NAOMI.

- Requisite Youtube crapola:
C is for Cookie
WA AmEx ad

- I don't know if you've been reading any EMP/Merritt/"Song of the South"/eh, controversy(?) followup bloggerings found far-n-wide, like I have, but here's a half-decent roundup of what's been said thus far. I'm sure I'm overlooking the fact that half the indiepopuli on the planet have message forums threads dedicated to all this as well, but kittens - I am tired and old, and too lazy to search: http://www.zoilus.com/documents/in_depth/2006/000751.php

- Go read JL's DCist piece, right now. If you know me, then you know what I think. And if you haven't read the WL piece yet he refers to, go do that as well.




* (Note: If anyone has purchased/heard the Streets new album, please leave an opinion at the tone.)

He said they have to order the red-brown floor tiles by the billions

Dan Tangherlini seems to be getting some good press of late. Reminds me that I never recapped the tour he personally provided for me a few weekends back…

Happy 30th Anniversary Metro! Ever wondered about the history of the DC Metro system? Ever wanted to know the stories behind the stops and what's coming up next? Spend a few hours wandering underground and learn little-known facts about the city's transportation network from Metro's interim general manager, Dan Tangherlini.

So read the website on the Cultural Tourism DC website about the walking tour of the Metro. It does not say that there will be hidden passages revealed or that you can make Gallery Place escalator closing announcements from the manager's booth or that you can go down on the tracks with a BB gun to shoot rats. Yet I expected all these things when I dragged my carcass out of bed into the rain assault on two Saturdays ago. (So did UN, for he was coincidentally there as well, but with the added discomfort of a heavily spirited Friday.) Tangherlini, tell your mates at Pepco to turn down the juice cuz I'm expecting to play chicken on that 3rd rail! No, scratch that! Leave the power on, stop the trains and lets play a giant game of Operation using BBQ grill meat tongs! And real buckets for the Water on the Knee piece! Zap!

Sadly, none of this was to pass. We started the tour at Metro Center, got a private train to drive us to Rhode Island and then worked our way back over the next hour. The group was so big that I didn't have any real idea of what was being said from where I was way in the back. I tried skirting the outer limits of the crowd, picking up various tidbits, but more often than not I was bested by the loud buses and trains that were driving around for some reason.

I learned no real "secrets" of the Metro,* though I do now know some trvial trivia that will wildly annoy anyone who is cursed enough to be on my same car. Like:

• Cardoza High has started a mechanical engineering class that focuses on Metro escalator repair.
• The manager's station design apes that of a tank's interior.
• The longest escalator in the Western Hemisphere is the one at the Wheaton station. Though Dan said his favorite is at Dupont Circle.**
• Each car is 75 feet long. Each platform is 600 feet long. Those 8 car orange line trains have a margin of error of 3 feet. Fortunately, robots drive the trains so it's not going to be a problem. The conductors are only there for emergencies, to close the door on my briefcase and sissy-slap french fries out of the hands of teenage girls.
• And much more!

The only real eyebrow arching aspect of the tour was the 3 armed police-type men guarding us at all times and at all stops. The first two were too cool for school to tell me why they were there, but I was able to get a wry comment out of one. Actually conversation:


Us: Are you guys Tangherlini's security guards?
Them: No. I’m just here for the walking tour.
Us: Does he have a security detail?
Them: No, sir, there isn't anything like that.
Us: So no black SUVs picking him up each morning?
Them: No. He's still only the "interim" General Manager.

Most of the folks there had come out of the rain for the education afforded by such an opportunity but toward the end Tangherlini got bogged down with people who wanted to complain about various petty things: broken escalators, signage, the seemingly unnecessary complexity of his name’s spelling and pronunciation. I bailed at Judiciary Square and missed the demonstration of the fare card reader. (No pictures, by the way, trade secret.) Because we didn’t have to pay to get in, I jumped the far so my SmartTrip wouldn’t be confused. You know, ‘cause I love it when the gate won’t let you through and card reader says you have to go speak to the manager and he’ll attempt something witty/sarcastic like “It says here you never left Fort Totten” and you say “Yeah, I’m fucking Kreskin the magician.”

So all in all it was a pretty good tour, a once every 30 year event. I wanted to out annoy the people who were busting Tangherlini's apple bag over the escalator breakdowns so I interrupted them and asked if I could get a picture with the interim GM himself. The shaky girl who took the picture asked if I was a metro groupie but I told her I was just testing Tangherlini's security detail. I then inexplicaly dashed off the train just before the door closed, laughing hysterically.



You lose security detail!

*the only real secret I learned is that two of the players on my old co-ed Ultimate team who we all assumed were quietly hooking up were also on the tour and are now openly hooking up.

**the most uncomfortable escalator ride of my life happened at Dupont. After the last train of the night, I rode up three steps behind two young gentlemen who were very much in love. The smaller of the two was on the step higher facing his friend and loudly detailing what he planned to do when they got home. And he was nibbling on his pal’s ear. Indeed, it was as uncomfortable as you can imagine. But it was his constant attempts to establish/maintain eye contact and draw me into his conversation that had me willing the escalator to move faster. Skeeved? Definitely. Flattered? Of course.

television ruined my life

Do you ever get bummed when you realize, should things continue as planned, you know exactly what you will be doing on a day three years in the future? Because as a newly-crowned... preschool teacher or something... I'm running a bizarre little contest here at the ol' career ranch- a question emailed out to every single person in the industry asking "WHAT THEY WILL BE DOING ON XXXX DATE." Prizes include a rubber chicken, as well as other magical gifts. And people have answers! Seriously! And none of them are fun, like "having a lesbian relationship in Prague."


. . .


Do you ever get bummed when you realize you are inserting sitcom dialogue into your daily life? And more devastatingly, your blog? SITCOMS, people.

“Ape shit postal” is too 1990s

Time to ruin the Governess’s blog and talk about football. Again. In May.

Actually the only thing I wanted to mention was the superb hyperbole offered on the ESPN website concerning Reggie Bush being passed over by the Texans.*

"Obviously, this decision is wolf-face crazy. It's the kind of decision you make when you are drunk, and on cocaine, and on deadline, and on fire."

I love animal based hyperbole. I love any insult if the person’s appearance or action is based on an animal’s appearance or action. I love any description of anything if it’s centered on an animal. The dog-faced baboon may be the perfect animal name. But I have never heard the term “wolf-face crazy” thouh it will now be employed on a constant basis.
Unless, of course, “wolf-face” is offensive to some group I am unaware of and then I apologize for being insensitive.

--------------------

I won’t talk about the Skin’s draft, either, because I honestly have no idea who they picked. Besides, they hold their draft in a time machine. Their 2006 selection occurred three years ago and they traded their picks for old QBs with spaghetti arms, a fourth rounder in 1989 and a handful of non-magical beans. It’s all free agency and salary cap flimflam for them. For example, look at the website touting the Beach Blitz, the Skin’s fan appreciation weekend that for some reason is not being held in the city that hosts the team. Almost a third of the players are pictured in the uniforms of other teams. (Of course, some of the so called “stars” for this event are also pictured in what appears to be their practice squad uniforms, not even on the active roster.)

-----------------------

And on the local football front, after nearly a month with rain or Resurrection delays we finally played a double header but lost both games shamefully. Especially since I was scored on by a guy in a full-out ninja outfit, including ski mask.

*For the other half of this blog, Reggie Bush is an incredible running back who may have something strange going on with money and/or his parents. It was expected he would be picked first by last year’s worst team. They picked someone taller and more wolf-packy.

blood sugar sex something

... all teen age boys --LUVVED the pairing of keidis' eroticism (ahem) with FLEAS TECHNICAL SLAPFUNKERY! Uhn! Titties on the cover and skate rock relevent of the 88-89 season. fugggh.

Teenage cognizance re: RHCP. It was at that precise moment that a certain pyginablanket member's HS boyfriend walked down the staircase pre-prom, wearing a (visible) RHCP teeshirt under a frilly-ish white prom shirt that royal we knew (I KNEW) we prob weren't ever going to be together after graduation - if we made it that long.

He played drums, kind of. He even looked like AK, kind of. He loved the RHCP with all his teenage heart and soul.

[He was big into Ice-T at that point, too, and I had just not caught up with such refined tastes yet (You can't pair a boy mostly down with rugby shirts, the Beasties, Keidis and the Ice with a girl rocking a neo-hippie Birks-n-socks fashion sensibility who rilly rilly loved the OMD retrospective and 100000 Maniacs. It just was not meant to be.) Also at the time, I was still mad about him getting buzzed in his parents basement & feeling up a girl named Sheryl with a D-cup. Also also, I had a crush on a Mormon. So we were doomed. Thhe best part of those few years of first-teen-love-dating involved our actual, final breakup - we sat in his living room (scratchy orange-n-brown tweed) and took turns, for over 3 hours, saying one great thing and one awful thing about our time together.]

For reals teen flaws, all around. Dumbest kids in the world. "Under the Bridge" still makes me awwwww like I'm watching two kittens wrestle.

ANYHOOS. The whole universe seems to be exploding with concern over a sole subject recently: Stadium Arcadium. Last night I read the Spin article (boring) and felt a certain happysadness (do you know that feeling? it's not nostalgia, it's..... something else???)- these dudes are in their 40s. They have kids. And playdates. Frusciante's track marks r covered in washable Crayola and spitup. The only one, apparently, who hasn't settled down is Keidis, who is still getting it on with 20 year old models.

In my mind I like to make-believe that that kid who taught me how to drive automatic (on a FORD ESCORT), took me to many an overrated HS dance, started wearing The Patch at 16 because I complained about him smoking, and burned down his parents garage (truth - he had a juvi parole meeting the very afternoon 15-year-old-I decided I was IN LUURV) is still playing drums, and maybe dating 20-year olds. But in reality, I know he's married with a kid, and a job in IT, and a mortgage.

So for real, who wants to come to my HS reunion with me? Only a few moe months for me to obsess about this, folks, and then it's on to a new topic.