Changes

It's been an eventful month, so I'll blame my complete lack of blogginess on feeling that my life is in such a state of flux. Also on relating interesting anecdotes to K when I get home instead of sitting down to blog about them. In an effort to make up for it, here's my month in review:

• K, upon contracting a bad sore throat, declared she was allergic to the futon and began sleeping on the floor. She swears it's not so bad.
• K and I found a new place, a rowhouse in a neighborhood few have heard of, and those that have believe to be sketchy. However, it's a rowhouse! That we can afford! In the city! And it's near a metro stop! The move is scheduled for Saturday.
• HSBFF came for a visit, and we spent Veterans Day weekend in NYC. It was cold. We ate a lot, and I introduced HSBFF to Malaysian food.
  
• I saw The Tragically Hip (which henceforth I'll refer to as the Hip, thus affecting an intimate knowledge of Canadian culture), Zappa Plays Zappa, The Taming of the Shrew, the Karelian Folk Music Ensemble, and They Might Be Giants. Also Bad Boys 2. Woo-sa!
• Agent V [this is what happens when you let people pick their own monikers] had K and I over for Thanksgiving, along with a few mutual friends and his parents. The stuffing and company were both excellent (really the only criteria that matter in judging a Thanksgiving, IMHO). I made two pies, trying my hand and making crust for the first time. For a recipe with so few ingredients, crust is surprisingly difficult. But the results weren't disastrous, just somewhat humbling.
  

Boulder

On my long Western journey I went to Boulder for an afternoon. Pueblo and Boulder should really be more than a two-and-a-half hour drive apart; they're about the same size and located in the same state, but going from the depressed desert industrial town to the mountainous hippie enclave gave me culture shock.

For example, you wouldn't find a "women's bookstore" in Pueblo, much less an oxygen bar. The reason I took a picture of this sign, though, is that it introduced me to the word "smartinis." Whatever a smartini is, I want one.

Friday

I flew into Denver on Friday afternoon, and Niffer-bur picked me up from the airport and drove me to Deme's parents' house, where we'd be staying for fifth year reunion weekend. Deme and SGB were already there. We chatted for awhile and then went to our class reception.

As expected, I didn't recognize many people there. Appart from a handful of close friends, I somehow didn't get to know many people in college. We did run into a friend who'd lived on our floor freshman year, a Peruvian who's now a lawyer in Miami and going by a different first name. I knew I'd been gone for a long time when he asked me where I'm from originally and I said automatically, "I'm from Colorado," realizing a moment later that I was in Colorado Springs, talking to someone who'd lived there for three years, and could really be more specific.

Other signs I'd been gone awhile: I got out of breath from walking up a single flight of stairs, and though I didn't get drunk off the two glasses of wine I had at the class reception, I did wake up with a headache the next morning.

The other person I recognized at reunion was one of my housemates from junior year, now an artist and hairdresser in LA. Once a self-identified lesbian, she's still with the same boyfriend she was when we lived together. No, I did not ask whether she's still a lesbian.

txt me

Shortly after I moved to DC I signed up for emergency text message and email alerts. I'm not much for disaster planning, but it seemed like a good idea. And while I've gotten my share of completely useless information (DMV closed early due to excessive heat, gas leak five blocks away has been repaired), it's also proved handy sometimes, as when it tells me when the severe weather warning will be over--i.e., when it will stop pouring so I can go outside.

This service entailed paying for maybe five a la carte text messages per month, which made the useless information ones doubly annoying. Then friends starting texting me, at first just once in awhile if they were running late, then more frequently. Some of them seem to use their phones only secondarily to actually make calls. I gave in a few months ago and sprang for the 50 messages/month bundle, which was lucky because my phone company raised the messaging rates to $.15/each at about the same time.

Then this billing cycle came along. Suddenly no one communicates with me orally at all. And why not? Are we European high school students now? Why spend 10 minutes exchanging six text messages when a 60-second phone conversation would be more efficient (and included in my plan)? Was the demise of the phone call a signal of my generation's increasing alienation from our fellow humans? Or was I just doing more stuff that called for texting? Whatever the reason, I burned through 62 messages in a week. I needed to cut back. But how?

Yesterday morning I awoke to this text from alert DC:

3-Alarm Fire @ 2633 Adams Mill Rd. NW. Parts of Coumbia Rd, Calvert St. & Adams Mill closed nearby.

Interesting? Definitely. Useful? Possibly. But did I need to know this at 6:43 am? No!

Well, resistance was clearly futile. I switched to the 300 message bundle that morning, at the bargain rate of $4.99/month. So go ahead, text me. Maybe next month I'll switch to the unlimited plan.

Extra heavy

This post is dedicated to Nell.

Q: What's more yucky than a gallon of mayonnaise?

A: A gallon of mayonnaise that bills itself as "Extra Heavy."

I saw this in the wee hours of this morning in a fast food restaurant that also sells some Middle Eastern teas and canned goods, along with industrial-sized condiments.

Retail therapy

How awesome is this bag?

I've begun to worry that maybe I'm developing a purse fetish. Which is ironic since I didn't buy my first purse until my 23rd birthday, when I decided it was time to quit schlepping my stuff around in a canvas bag. And now look at me: so many bags they barely fit on the back of my closet door anymore. I go into TJ Maxx to buy clothes, and I end up with a bag that costs as much as three tops.

So, I'm kind of a materialist. But at least I'm a materialist with a really exciting sapphire bag.

Bus

Yesterday morning I woke up at 8:00 (as my body still seems to feel that six hours at a time is more than sufficient), and decided to go to the 10:00 tae kwon do class. My bus was early and I had to run to catch it at a light. Once on board I felt around in my bag for my wallet... and felt... and rumaged... and it wasn't there. I had no Smartrip card and no money. I briefly contemplated trying to talk the driver into giving me a free ride, but then how would I get back? The tkd studio is miles from my apartment. So, without giving any explanation, I got off at the next stop, walked back home, and headed down to the basement to workout on the elliptical machine.

Circadian rhythms

For about two weeks now I've had trouble sleeping. It takes me forever to get to sleep, and then sometimes I wake up in the wee hours and have to start all over again. I don't know why this is--I certainly don't have jet lag. It's as though my body has suddenly decided that it only wants to sleep in the afternoon. And no, insomnia detectives, my problem is not an excess of naps: I think I've taken a grand total of two naps during this sleepless phase.

The strange thing is that while I've been tired, I haven't really been more tired than usual during the day. Which leads me to wonder if I've suddenly started needing less sleep. I remember thinking around the time I started watching Heroes on DVD that if I could pick a superpower, I'd want to be able to go without sleep. Think about it--you could pack two lifetimes' worth of activities into one! But I also distinctly remember thinking that this would only be a good power if I could sleep when I wanted to, because I like sleeping. Hear me, careful-what-you-wish-for gods?

Signs

CityPaper
Originally uploaded by ChezShawna

You know you live in Washington when... this is the cover story on your weekly paper.

If you're curious what the reasons are, the full article can be found here. I haven't actually read it yet, but something tells me it's intended for mature audiences.

Ithaca is far

I rented a car and went to Ithaca over Labor Day weekend. I hadn't been since January, and decided I'd better make it up for the last weekend of summer. I saw NCSV and Deano and Nell and Jepetto, who'd just gotten his Ph.D. that week. Also some people who don't have names on my blog (yet). And I visited some of the places I've missed, like the Chapter House and the Carriage House and the Commons and (to be a stereotypical girl for a second) the shoe section at Bon-Ton.

Interestingly, almost as soon as I reached the Ithaca city limits I noticed I'd grown bossier. I don't think I'm very bossy in DC, but I'm rarely shy about telling my Ithaca friends what to do. Maybe the move has been good for me...

In which my tastes are called into question, and defended

Last night I was reading the Atlantic, congratulating myself on actually getting through a whole issue rather than just letting it contribute to the Leaning Tower of Pisa on my desk/nightstand like so many other publications, when I came on this article by Michael Hirschorn right at the end. As take-downs of pop culture phenomena go it's rather gentle. I think its fighting-est words are:

Quirk, loosed from its moorings, quickly becomes exhausting... Like the proliferation of meta-humor that followed David Letterman and Jerry Seinfeld in the ’90s, quirk is everywhere because quirkiness is so easy to achieve: Just be odd … but endearing. It becomes a kind of psychographic marker, like wearing laceless Chuck Taylors or ironic facial hair—a self-satisfied pose that stands for nothing and doesn’t require you to take creative responsibility.

Hirschorn's article classified many things I hold dear as "quirk," namely:

• This American Life
• Arrested Development
• Napolean Dynamite
• Little Miss Sunshine
• Rushmore*
• The Royal Tennenbaums
  

Ok, so I agree with him about Garden State and The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou, but proof positive that Hirschorn was talking about me came here (in reference to This American Life):

It’s the sound of Austin, Boulder, Berkeley, Red Hook, Madison, Cambridge, Adams Morgan**—of people who tend to think of themselves as engaged, aware.

Oh the humanity! Oh the italics!

Hirschorn, by contrast, is a man of the people. You can tell because he enjoys Knocked Up and reality TV.

Upon reflection I realized I'm probably guilty not only of patronizing this unmoored quirk, but of propagating it: see my blog entries on signs for dogs, recording examples of risible punctuation, and roller-blading in a parade while dressed as a car.

Upon further reflection I remembered that This American Life does do devastatingly "important" shows, including some great recent ones on the Iraq war and habeas corpus. And I thought about the some of the pretentious schlock I've seen that came out of someone's earnest attempt to make something that mattered (see Crash, Babel), and concluded I'd rather have spent those couple of hours on some meaningless piece of engaged, aware quirky escapism. Because what's wrong with that, really?

*cited as an example of good quirk
**this is where I live

Buffy

Yesterday I watched the final two episodes in the Buffy the Vampire series. It doesn't sound like a great way to spend a gorgeous Saturday afternoon (hey--I went outside, too), but it seemed momentous, given that I'd been slowly making my way through the series on DVD since January 2005.

So what am I going to do tomorrow? Maybe I'll set the world on fire. Or maybe I'll start on the other 213 DVDs in my Netflix queue. The possibilities are endless.

Pimp my cat

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think this is Icanhascheezburger material. I just need the right caption. Ideas?

Thai Hot

This is the receipt from M.M.'s birthday dinner on Tuesday. Even with six exclamation marks, it wasn't hot enough for him, so he asked for some hot sauce and piled it on. Afterward he claimed he couldn't concentrate because his mouth was on fire. What a wuss.

A Rock in a Park

Remember how I wrote that hanging out with Joey and E97 was sort of like being in a Kevin Smith movie? Yeah, I didn't think so. Anyway, for E97's sister, editor of this surreal, er, short, it was apparently like a completely different kind of movie:

(Don't feel like you need to watch the whole thing. It's very much an inside joke. I think.)

(Also, I don't make an appearance in this video.)

In which the Virgin performs a miracle

On Friday night those of us who had never been to A Day in Rock City before were awarded Virgin candles from the Mexican store.

On Tuesday I was late to the airport. I'm somewhat notorious for being late to the airport; when leaving from DC I arrived 50 minutes before takeoff. But I had the impression that it took 45 minutes to get from Niffer-bur's to O'Hare on the El; in fact, it took an hour. A very long hour, involving many stops and much inching along. I hadn't had anything to eat that day, and given my love of breakfast, by the time I got to O'Hare I was quite irritable and worried. More than missing my flight, I was worried about not having time to grab a bite to eat before boarding.

I arrived about 40 minutes before takeoff and speed-walked through the airport to security, which I found wondrously line-free. Relievedly, I took off my shoes, put my bag on the conveyor belt, and heard those dreaded words: "bag check!"

I searched my conscience and, hoping for quick redemption, confessed my sins to the middle-aged TSA employee assigned to my bag: "I know, I forgot to take my liquids out."

"Which pocket are they in?"

I pointed to the front pocket, where he found my carefully-packed quart-sized zip-top bag of quasi-contrabands.

"It looked like you had a spray can or a bottle..." he said, replacing the baggie.

I thought, and realized what it must be. If he searched the packed main compartment of my bag, it would take forever. But I felt calm, resigned to my fate of missing my flight. "I have a candle," I said.

"You have a candle?" he said, handing my bag over. "Ok, thank you."

I took my bag slowly, unable to believe this stroke of luck. As I hoisted it onto my back and headed through the terminal, I glanced at the clock: still enough time to hit the bathroom and a fast-food joint. I was saved.

Komodo

When Niffer-bur and I got to the Chicago aquarium on Monday we found a line that went out the door, down the front steps, and halfway across the courtyard. A clue to the reason for the madness was the giant blow-up lizard whose mouth the line disappeared into: There was a temporary lizard exhibit going on, including a Komodo Dragon.

While I was impressed with the aquarium, I thought the Komodo was nothing to wait in line for 40 minutes for. It's kind of goofy-looking. Maybe I'd feel differently if I'd seen it flick its tongue or lumber around its enclosure or something.

A Day in Rock City: Swiss Canoe Races

Much as I didn't come to Illinois expecting to rollerblade bewigged and half-naked in the Rock City Day parade, I didn't go to the Swiss canoe races with the intention of competing: I was just going to sit on the bleachers and take pictures. But Niffer-bur's team that needed a fourth, and apparently I can't say no to potentially humiliating physical feats--at least not when I'm in the Midwest. So I joined 0ne of the two all-female teams (there were about seven teams overall).

When my team's name was called, I attempted to climb off the bleachers and fell... and fell... and fell. My feet were perhaps four feet off the ground when I started falling, but I managed to hit every possible bleacher component on the way down. When I finally stopped falling I sensed that all conversation in that section of the bleachers had stopped, and that all eyes were on me.

"I'm ok," I said to no one in particular. In fact the bruises on my right leg stretch from mid-calf to groin, and there's a bruise on my left thigh that's about five square inches. (This was particularly ironic, given that I hadn't fallen once during my roller blading escapades.) But I got up and got into my fireman's boots behind Niffer-bur.

Swiss canoing, I learned that day, doesn't actually involve any water. Rather, four pairs of fireman's boots are nailed to two parallel boards, and four team members attempt to move in a synchronized way to move forward, around a cone, and back to the finish line.

It's truly a cold day in hell when I triumph in any sporting event, so it was shocking when our team beat the only other all-female team to the finish line. Particularly since our team was composed of 75 percent Rock City Day virgins. When we crossed the finish line we stopped, cheered, and promptly fell over.

A Day in Rock City: Parade

There are certain moments in my life that have caused me to reevaluate some part of my concept of who I am. I start to wonder who this person is who made the decisions that put me in this situation. I had such a moment when I tried to sneak out of my Turkish dorm room and found myself hanging from a windowsill over a 12-foot drop onto concrete; another just before jumping out of a plane with a parachute strapped to my back.

Both of those incidents of minor physical peril pale in comparison to what I was doing at a little before 11:00 on Saturday morning, though: namely, rollerblading alone past small-town Midwesterners who'd gathered outside to see a parade. In addition to the rollerblades, I was wearing white fishnets, a short, yellow, sequined skirt and skimpy top to match, long black gloves, huge sunglasses, a wig, and a cardboard car.

The first decision that led me down the road to this moment of public weirdness was coming to A Day in Rock City, a festival put on each year to celebrate the founding of this village of 300 near the Illinois/Wisconsin border. Each year friends of Nell, a friend from my Ithaca days who's from Rock City, converge for the occasion, and this year I thought I'd see what the fuss was about.

Nell and another Rock City Day veteran picked me up in Rockford on Thursday in the midst of a shopping trip. As we drove between craft and thrift stores hunting for costumes and float decorations, Nell explained that the theme of this year's float would be Gas Guzzlers for Global Warming, and she ran down the available roles: the Arab oil sheik, George Bush, gas station workers, the oil company worker, the Texas oil tycoon and his wife, ghoulish dying people. The role of a polar bear drowning in a wading pool was already taken. "And if you have any interest in rollerskating, you can be a car," she said. The cars would skate in front of the float in a traffic jam; each would have a designated color and a costume purchased by Nell in Thailand.

This didn't seem like the best option, given that I hadn't roller skated in years, and had no roller skates. But when I found a box full of $2 roller blades to choose from at Goodwill, I became more receptive to the idea. I bought a pair and practiced skating around the bank parking lot that night, but I grew worried when I saw the costumes, which I thought would look fine on a six-year-old at a dance recital, but not so great on me.

As far as I could tell, nothing got done on the float on Friday, including my own goal of finding someone else to be the yellow car. Work seemed to begin in the middle of the night; when I woke up in the morning, Nell was already hard at work on the seemingly impossible job of getting the float ready for the parade's 10:30 commencement. I went to work on my car with the over-worked hot glue gun, quickly resigning myself to driving the most pathetic car of the group. That was the point of no return: having built the car, I had to drive it.

We were late to the parade, and being accomplished skaters, the other cars reached the starting point blocks ahead of me. Which was how I came to be all alone on my $2 blades, behind the other cars but ahead of the float (ably pulled by G.R. as the Arab sheik on a three-wheeler), on a later stretch of the parade route where the spectators were already gathered.

We had a great time, though. If you don't believe me, believe G.R.'s Picasa album.

Ha! Ha! Ha!

Behold: My feelings about called laughter have been brilliantly captured by The Onion.

Randomness and the nature of The Ninth Floor

This morning I went with N.Lu to see Al Gore speak outside the Museum of the American Indian, part of the Live Earth concert series today. Turned out we didn't actually see the man -- ok, I didn't, but N.Lu claims to have seen his back as he took the stage. Then we heard Garth Brooks an Trisha Yearwood sing "We Shall be Free." Then we met TOWWAS at the Folklife Festival.

I'd been the week before, but it was fun to go again. We saw some great performances from southern China, and N.Lu interrogated a Belfast scientist about his renewable energy plan involving sewage, willow trees, and sustainable heating. There was some time devoted to shopping, but I managed not to spend a thing all day except for metro fare.

To me, though, none of this seems to make for a very interesting blog entry. I've come to realize that, whether true or not, I tend to believe that pictures of surprising and random stuff are the gold standard of blog-able subjects. So here goes:

This was stuck into the ground next to a tree I saw on the way to N.Lu's place. I don't know why, or whether, the tree needed saving. The sign was still there when I came back this afternoon.

And the "most random item in a Smitsonian gift shop" award goes to:

It was published in 2002 -- when, perhaps, it seemed marginally more tasteful. In addition to quotes, it contains such jokes as, "Q: What do Michael Dukakis and Saddam Hussein have in common? A: Neither can believe they lost to Bush."

100%

I heard a McDonald's commercial a few nights ago that ended, "With 100% beef, nothing beats a Big Mac." I'm no expert on burgers, but isn't being 100% beef really the least you'd expect? Do the other fast food restaurants cut their beef with, say, horse? Soylent green? A "secret ingredient"?



As a side note, this is my eighth post to carry the "food" tag. I guess this is marginally better than blogging about my cat all the time, which is what I feared when I started this adventure. Still, perhaps I should try harder to develop my other interests... like drinking.

Tourists III

These are the kinds of food we ate this past weekend:
Afghani
French
sandwich (Potbelly, such a hit we went back the next day)
Ethiopian
Turkish (ok, only so E97 had the Turkish breakfast, but I'm counting it)
sushi

I also introduced Joey to the wonder that is the mojito.

On Sunday afternoon Joey and E97 walked up the Exorcist stairs in Georgetown. Then Joey pretended to fall down them. Then they raced back up them. I had to stay at the bottom because, well, that was just the sacrifice I had to make in order to record the whole ordeal.

Tourists II

I've had out-of-town visitors for the last two weekends, and much fun has been had. In the case of Joey (from Colorado) and his high school friend E97 (who lives in Baltimore now, but whom I had not seen for nine long years), I felt kind of like I was in a Kevin Smith movie. Except that the dialogue was nerdier (in a good way), and, on E97's part, much less crude.

I'm a long way from getting tired of doing touristy things here--there are always new things to discover. Take this comment card at the National Archives, which I found quite entertaining.

A few blocks away, I spotted this work of art in the women's room at Potbelly:

Editrix

A big congratulations to M.M., who informs me he's been accepted to the University of Maryland's M.B.A. program. He was nice enough to give me some credit for editing his essays (but do admissions people really read these things? I have my doubts). It's great to know his work paid off, including my making him re-write two of his three essays. I find editing other peoples' stuff to be oddly fun, but sometimes I think I get a little carried away...

I've been busy this past month, and also uninspired, blog-wise. Let's have a moment of silence for some of the topics I thought about writing about, but just never got around to:

• How hard (and unpleasant) it is to adjust to a style of tae kwon do where you can hit people in the face, when you're used to a style where you can't
• How lightening struck so close to my building on Friday night that it set off the fire alarm, which turns out to emit an adorably quaint clanging sound
• How G.R. and I threw a surprisingly kick-ass dinner party on Saturday

Also, congratulations to TOWWAS, who finally has Internet access in her lovely and conveniently-situated IKEA-furnished new apartment, and thus can go back to blogging far, far more regularly than I. (Now there's a sentence in need of editing.)

Posted

A few weeks ago, on my way to work, I noticed this sign. I've walked past here every day for 10 months now, but hadn't seen the sign before because it's about a foot off the ground. Conveniently, it's at eye level for dogs. It says "Please do not walk on flowers."

Three movies, two Twists

I saw three very different movies this weekend: The Host, Spider-Man 3, and Infamous. Oddly, the second two both included scenes of people doing The Twist in their Manhattan apartments. What are the chances? I thought I remembered The Twist also featuring prominently in Ferris Bueller, but of course, that was Twist and Shout. Can anyone else think of a movie where people do The Twist?

On the off-chance that one of my five readers is considering Netflixing one of these movies (or joining the hordes at the theater), here's what I thought of them: The Host is good, but strange. The CGI monster is excellently done, the characters are great, and it's funny. Just don't expect an American monster movie with subtitles, because that it is not.

Spider-Man 3 wasn't great, but not as bad as I'd feared. Its main problem is that it has way too much going on--I mean, save something for Spider-Man 4, Raimi! Also I saw it in a theater that, though great from an aesthetic standpoint (it's old and art-deco, and has a balcony and a giant screen), has no legroom, but did include free commentary by fellow audience members. I came to the realization that I shouldn't watch movies over two hours in length at any theater, much less that one.

Given its timing, and the fact that Phillip Seymour Hoffman won an Oscar for Capote, Infamous was doomed to be regarded as the other Truman Capote movie. It doesn't lack for stars, including Gwyneth Paltrow in a brief and seemingly gratuitous cameo. I thought it was interesting, and there were some really hilarious moments in the first half of the film (it got darker as it went along). There was a bit too much reliance on talking heads to explain it all to us, as though the writers couldn't figure out how to get their points across with dialogue and acting alone, or thought the audience would be too dense to get it. But I enjoyed it.

Unlucky

Lest you think my life is all free art and decadent California breakfasts, here are some unfortunate things that have happened to me recently:

• I got a $35 parking ticket in Del Mar while M.M. and I were off hunting for quarters to put in their ridiculously overpriced meters.
• The bottle of vintage Nicaraguan rum I picked up in Tijuana broke in M.M.'s checked bag on the way back (curses to Homeland Security and its inane liquids ban!).
• I skipped tae kwon do and came straight home from work today intending to do some much-needed laundry, only to find that a water main had broken. I didn't have water until just minutes ago--that is, 11:20 p.m.

Speaking of tae kwon do, here's something good that happened last week that I haven't blogged about: I got my brown belt. I'd been a red belt since July, what with switching schools and being rather lazy about learning the new curriculum. My next test will be for black belt. Yikes.

Now that's a breakfast

Breakfast (or brunch) is my favorite meal of the day to eat out for. There's something very decadent about being able to go to a restaurant for breakfast: It's a signal to myself and the rest of the world that, hey, I don't have anyplace to rush off to. I can go out for breakfast. At 11:00.

So, although I took plenty of pictures at the wedding I went to this past weekend in San Diego, and at the beach, and even a few (technically) in Mexico, it's this one I'll share. Because this, readers, is an exciting breakfast. In the foreground is a hash of potatoes, artichoke hearts, sundried tomatoes, and mushrooms, topped with two poached eggs. In the background is an espresso drink called a cinnamon bun a go-go.

Magic word

This is an excerpt from the instructions on my Trader Joe's organic whole wheat pasta. It seems so Trader Joe's to include the word "please" in cooking instructions, as in, "We at Trader Joe's care deeply about our pasta and about your experience thereof, so although we don't like to be bossy, we respectfully request that you not overcook this spaghetti."

Joey (no relation) had a different interpretation:

Is it like in gremlins when you weren't supposed to feed the fuzzy guys after a certain time? Does your pasta turn into a monster? Please don't overcook!

Free stuff week

Two free things I got recently, but didn't mention in my last post because they weren't art:

1.) a glass of wine at Artomatic, courtesy of Zipcar
2.) a Ben & Jerry's ice cream cone yesterday, which happened to be Free Cone Day

The kicker, though, is the Zipcar mouse pad and a Not for Tourists Guide to Washington, which it turns out I won in the raffle I entered Saturday at Artomatic. Awesome.

Free art weekend

A painting by the nostalgic Turkish guy

Well, once again it's my bedtime and I haven't yet blogged, so I'll make this quick. I soaked in a ton of culture for free this past Saturday without even going to the Smithsonian. MM and I started off with the Japanese Street Festival, which concluded this year's Cherry Blossom Festival. While the bastardized pan-Asian cuisine and landscape architects from Portland did not get me feeling very Japanese, we did see some interesting displays of dancing, drumming, and swordsmanship.

Next stop was a temporary exhibit of Turkish paintings just down the street from The Ninth Floor. Unfortunately the name of the artist escapes me--it's something fairly long and, well, Turkish-looking. The paintings were surprisingly nostalgic. I liked the colors.

All this was very family-friendly; for the hipster free art experience we had to travel far--almost to the airport, in fact, to a place called Artomatic. It's an annual showcase for local artists that takes up two floors of a large office building in Crystal City, one of the Virginia suburbs. The artists each get their own little space to take over, which lends itself to an almost dreamlike experience. In a few steps I went from something involving a large circle of live grass, to wax sculptures resembling sea anemones, to symmetrical black and white photos of naked breasts. There was a ton of art, so much that I eventually gave up on seeing it all. I did make a point, though, of seeing all the Peeps dioramas.

Blooming

I like DC much better now that the trees are in bloom. Here's a picture I took a few days ago on my way to work. Even the pathetic triangle of dirt on 17th and New Hampshire that passes for a dog park was bedecked with beautiful white blossoms.

Yesterday half of our office went down to the Tidal Basin (where the famous Japanese cherry trees are) for a picnic lunch. The famously ephemeral blossoms were near their peak, and breezes sent blizzards of little white petals swirling around their throngs of admirers.

Last night brought an impressive hour-long thunderstorm and hard rain, and on the way in this morning most of the cherry blossoms had been washed from the trees, revealing new green leaves.

Tourists

One nice thing about living in DC is that it's easy to impress out-of-town visitors.

A few weekends ago NSCV came down for a festival involving Flogging Molly, a pseudo-Irish band we both like. M.M. came out with us, and I introduced them both to Turkish food one night and Ethiopian the next, both at restaurants within walking distance of my place.

This past weekend G.R. made his first trip to our nation's capital from his new home base in Delaware. G.R. is naturally enthusiastic, and actually pays attention to things like the Supreme Court, so he was like a kid on a sugar high. If kids on sugar highs kept dropping the F-bomb and talking about evolution.

So what could have been a somewhat brutal post-St.-Patrick's-Day slog around the mall actually turned out to be quite fun, with stops at the Botanic Gardens, the Canadian embassy, and the Museum of Natural History. I may have even learned some things about evolution.

Australians

In my ongoing desperation for content, I've resorted to telling other peoples' stories. Here's an email a Virginian colleague of mine (I'll call her V.C. for short) forwarded me yesterday:

>>> <> 3/14/2007 4:47 PM >>>
Subject: Fwd: "Slug" loses umbrella...

Colleagues,

From time to time on the Front Desk we receive calls that are a little out of the ordinary; one follows:

Earlier this morning (14 mar 2007), I received a call from a lady named [V.C.], who had a query she described as one you probably don't get every day. Ms [V.C.] had ridden into the District this morning utilising the "Slug" system most Washington workers/Virginia residents use. Ms [V.C.] advised she had had a thoroughly engaging conversation with the driver, and wished she had asked for her name; a wish that became all the more urgent when she realised she had left her umbrella in the Embassy staffer's car. The only info Ms [V.C.] had was the lady worked here; was Australian; drove a shiny red car, and was (today) wearing a yellow pants suit.

I promised I would keep an eye out for such an ensemble, but have been unsuccessful so far.

Minister/Counsellor (Management) and Consul-General, with an eye to the impending weather, has graciously allowed this e-mail to go out to all staff throwing Ms [V.C.] on your collective mercy.

Ordinarily, I would ask the staffer to call me, and I would then connect her with Ms [V.C.], but as we are about to close (and given the somewhat random nature of Slug encounters), Ms [V.C.] has agreed that her contact details can be published, and the staffer can contact her direct:

[contact details]

Again: Australian Lady; Shiny Red Car; yellow Pants Suit (today, at least) carrying an umbrella she can't readily account for.

Regards,

[friendly Australian embassy front desk man]

Within minutes of this email being sent out, V.C. was chatting on the phone with the now-famous yellow pantsuit lady. Not only was she reunited with her umbrella, she got a ride back to Virginia at the end of the day. And you know what? It didn't even rain yesterday.

Winners and losers

Just a short rant about TV. Why are networks still making tired sitcoms with tired ensemble casts (hot women, loser-ish unattractive men, and their smartass kids) and tired laugh tracks? I ask because, as a fan of Comedy Central's always-fresh Daily Show, I was interested to see The Winner, the network show that Rob Corddry left the Daily Show to star in. I think I caught the pilot on Sunday, and boy was it dull. Also it's set in 1994 for some reason (a very minor plot point in the pilot revolves around the O.J. Simpson police chase), as though to hearken back to a time when shows with laugh tracks could still be considered good--original, even. Or maybe innovations such as cell phones and email make things too complicated for the writers. Despite a few good lines and Corddry's brilliance at playing a clueless loser, I expected better.

Contrast this with, say, the Sarah Silverman Program, another brand-new addition to the TV landscape. Like The Winner, Sarah stars an unlikable, clueless narrator. Also like The Winner it features highly improbable plot lines, but Sarah takes absurdity to a different level. In one episode, she adopts a 10-year-old daughter for a day and grooms her to win a talent competition; meanwhile, Sarah's gay neighbors are arrested and harshly interrogated by Homeland Security, during which they snickeringly brag about leaving a bomb in a police car. Turns out that... well, I wouldn't want to ruin it. There will be plenty of chances to see the episode as Comedy Central re-runs it ad nauseum. My point is that the writers of the Sarah Silverman Program understand that in eschewing likable characters, plot arcs, and believability, they've stripped the show's appeal down to being consistently, knee-slappingly funny. Which it is. (Warning to sensitive viewers: the following clip would not be allowed on network TV).



And lest you suppose that being on a network constrains The Winner to breaking out the same old laugh track, please take 30 minutes on Thursday to watch 30 Rock on NBC. I'd review it, but I did promise a short rant.

Nosy Samaritan

Last night while waiting for the bus I noticed a wallet sitting on the curb. There were other people around, but none of them seemed to be looking for a lost wallet, so I picked it up and took it home. It turned out not to be very interesting: no credit cards, no money, just a Howard University student ID, Blockbuster membership card, Safeway gift card, AAA membership card that expired in 2001, and business cards for a lawyer, a florist, and a mortgage broker... I started to wonder if the guy who lost this wallet would be very excited about getting it back. Maybe I could use his Howard University card to get student discounts and see how often I got called on it--no one really looks at those cards anyway, right? But I found his social security card sandwiched in with all that worthless plastic, and figured he'd miss that eventually.

Then I noticed, turned backward behind the student ID, a driver's license. I was happy to have an address, but closer inspection revealed that not only did the license have a different name on it than everything else in the wallet, but it had expired in 2003. Now here was a mystery: Why was a 31-year-old (according to his student ID) carrying around someone else's expired driver's license, but not one of his own?

Unfortunately I'll never know, since I dropped the wallet off with a security guard at the Howard dorm across the street from my building this morning, and she didn't ask for my name. It occurred to me later that I should have added one of my business cards to Mr. Smith's (his real name) collection. Then if Mr. Smith had taken the hint and called to thank me, I could have plied him for information. Sigh.

California girl

Just got back from a week in San Francisco: part work, part play. I hadn't been to the West Coast at all in two and a half years (except for Peru), so it was very exciting. There are myriad things I could blog about from the trip, and maybe I will if I'm feeling ambitious lately, but I think for now I'll just say that it was a fantastic trip, and that I got to catch up with friends from college, friends from grad school, friends I met in Ithaca, and people I've met at various meetings, so it was action-packed.

NSCV was there, and got me a new tacky souvenir pig. It's official: I am the pig lady. But please do not send me any ugly pigs. It's only cute if NSCV does it.

Obama's Space

In the wake of yesterday's announcement, www.barackobama.com has added a crazy social-networking component where you can create a profile, upload a picture, search for other supporters, find campaign events to go to, blog about how much you love Barack Obama, and even track your personal progress in raising money for the campaign. Best of luck, Barry--I just hope you don't get sued by Rupert Murdoch.

Even though I'm very, very happy that Obama is running, I'm disturbed that he's running almost two years before the election. If this election sets a precedent--and don't they all?--I'm looking at having presidential campaigns running for half of my adult life. Makes me seriously re-think wanting to live in a democracy.

"Food"

Yesterday our office held its annual white trash cook-off, a tradition that began... last year. While some might view our trying to out-do each other by making creative and disgusting dishes out of processed food products as an ugly expression of East Coast-liberal elitism, I submit that we were in fact departing from liberal elitist stereotypes by shunning political correctness.

While there was no formal judging process, in my opinion there was a tie for the most creative/disgusting prize between Twinkie sushi and litterbox cake. The litterbox cake was actually not so bad if you could get past the fact that it was topped with Tootsie Rolls sculpted to look like poop. Twinkie sushi, on the other hand, looked cool but tasted unbelievably gross.

Another purchase, another blog entry

My blog's been going through a slow time, but nothing inspires me to write like a major purchase. One of my goals for this year is to decorate my apartment, and I took a step in that direction this week when I bought this mid-century bed I found on craigslist. How awesome is this? I think it goes particularly well with my 40s building, and maybe even the TV that's almost as old as I am. My stuff isn't just old anymore--it's vintage.

When I finally wrestled the box spring and mattress onto the new frame, the top of the bed turned out to be an inch shy of three feet off the floor. It's a reminder of where the phrase "climb into bed" comes from.

Unfortunately Rocky is not as enamored with the bed as I am. She hid in the closet for over two hours starting when we brought the headboard and footboard in. When I finally managed to coax her out, she stared fearfully at the new bed and then went back into the closet. I've disturbed her sacred hiding place.

I Heart Hodgman

Having nothing to blog about lately, I'm going to fall back on a time-tested blogger trick: borrowing other people's content. Not just any content, though--John Hodgman/Jon Stewart content. Hodgman is not only hilarious, he's everywhere I want to be: NPR, The Daily Show, hocking Macs. Which leads me to that stolen content:

Flickr

For all my readers who've been losing sleep about how I can't walk and will probably lose my job and end up on the street, have no fear. I limped for less than 24 hours and am walking (even running for the bus) quite normally now. But the bruise now covers nearly my whole foot. You can indulge your morbid curiosity here.

Speaking of which, my first disgusting foot picture has gotten 27 hits on Flickr in the few days since I uploaded it. Compare that to this picture, which I'm partial to, and which has gotten exactly 0 hits prior to blog highlighting. I mean, I snowshoed into the mountains during a blizzard for this picture and risked ruining my new camera with wet snow, and I think it came out rather well. But apparently all Flickr viewers want is prurient shock value.

Ow

Picture this: I'm sparring in tae kwon do. I jump up, spin 540 degrees and kick my six-foot-tall partner on the side of the head so hard that he flies across the room. I bruise my foot in the process.

What actually happened was that I was doing forms, which are these sort of formal routines--not upper-level forms, but forms that involve a lot of emphatically stepping into new positions and punching and such--and I stepped wrong. I fell pretty dramatically, which is more embarrassing when you're doing something like stepping emphatically into a new position than it is when you're doing something that's actually... hard. But I prefer that you continue visualizing the first scenario.

Being clumsy, I've rolled my ankle plenty of times, and I've always been fine. But now I'm a little worried that I might have broken a bone in my foot (ironically, just three days into my new workout-six-days-a-week regimen). I think it's just a bruise, though. I'll see how it feels in the morning.

Taxidermy

How hilarious can taxidermy be? Find out here.

Lesson

I've observed before that when I blog about needing/wanting something, it's often miraculously delivered to me: a DVD player, a corkscrew, a digital camera. But I wasn't thinking about that history when I blogged last week about how brown and depressing Pueblo and its environs were. Sure enough, whatever gods there be sent me a three-day snowstorm. Maybe you think that's no big deal because you think it snows all the time in Colorado, but Pueblo is no Buffalo: it gets 10 inches of precipitation a year, and when I was a teenager there I wore sandals for most of the winter. (Ok, so some people thought I was crazy, but I still have all my toes).

While pretty, the snow left me stranded at my parents' house doing nothing while I would rather have been somewhere else doing nothing. One plus: I got to go snowshoeing. Allow me to recommend my debut Canon filmaking project, a clip of our dog trying to hitch a ride on the backs of my mom's snowshoes.

The lesson, in case you missed it, is that I need to be careful what I wish for on The Ninth Floor.

Today's the Day

The day DC goes blissfully smoke-free, that is. Hooray!

Oh, and it's also the day of Ford's funeral. But you already knew that.