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.

Photographer

I got a new camera for my birthday/Christmas, which means I can now take my own pictures of tumbleweeds. Yay! My pick for the blog was going to be one with horses in it, but I went with reindeer and cacti instead.

Home on the Range

I arrived at the Denver airport (on time) yesterday afternoon to find the place looking somewhat lived in after the snowstorm that closed it down for two days. The line for security stretched around the baggage claim (pretty significant, given the size of the airport), and there were announcements asking people to wait until four hours before their flight to get in line. Four hours!

Two hours down the road, the snow was melted but my sparsely-populated hometown had made international news for its own severe weather: a tumbleweed blizzard. The wind had been high and this summer must have been a bumper time for tumbleweeds, because they piled up so high at the front of my parents' house that they rolled over the roof and filled up the back deck--my mom could only let the dog out the side door. (Disclaimer: I have no idea where this photo was taken. One would think that when tumbleweeds make the international news there should be lots of pictures of them online, but no such luck. However, this could very well be Pueblo West).

Each time I leave Pueblo (it's a little east of Pueblo West, for the uninitiated) I forget just how desolate and depressing this place is. Maybe it would help if I didn't always visit in the dead of winter, when it's brown and windy most of the time, with no natural greenery to alleviate the stark ugliness of the box stores and paycheck loan places and the lonesome stucco houses.

Soapbox II

What do you do when someone writes a near 4,000-word cover article about you, culminating in this take-down?

And now, like a mighty t-rex that has escaped from Jurassic Park, Crichton stomps across the public policy landscape, finally claiming the influence he has always sought. In this sense, he himself is like an experiment gone wrong--a creation of the publishing industry and Hollywood who has unexpectedly mutated into a menacing figure haunting think tanks, policy forums, hearing rooms, and even the Oval Office. And, ironically, this leaves Crichton in the very role he and the science-fiction genre have always derided: the hubristic man of opinions, the insider, the expert.

Well, if you're Michael Crichton, you respond like this (yes, you need to register to see the full article, but it's free and very worthwhile).

Is the pen, in fact, mightier than the sword? Discuss.

Santa's in Town

This afternoon I went to TOWWAS's Christmas show: two and a half hours of wholesome holiday revelry put on by a talented group of singers (and dancers). Then I headed to the Froggy Bottom pub with a couple of fellow audience members for an early dinner. It was five o'clock and we'd stumbled on a pub full of Santas: it was Santarchy.

There were male Santas and female Santas, an Elvis Santa, a cowboy Santa, a Trojan-helmeted Santa, and a pirate Santa. There was a Santa in a long brown cape, a Santa in a union suit, an Santa wearing a trucker hat, and a Santa with blonde dreadlocks. One woman was wearing a red dress reminiscent of the evil queen in Snow White; another was wearing a velvety red top befitting a Renaissance festival. I saw white-and-red striped tights and red fishnet tights, and numerous reindeer antlers. Some of the Santas were making out with each other indiscriminately.

At some point, after we'd finally managed to get some food from the harried waitstaff and were finishing up, the Santas all disappeared as if sucked up through a giant chimney. But in fact they'd used a less magical mode of transportation: I found myself walking behind four of them on the sidewalk after I'd left the pub. They were singing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town."

How I know I've been working hard in tae kwon do

1.) Two of my knuckles are raw
2.) My abs are still a little sore from doing pyramids in Saturday's class
(if you don't know what pyramids are, count your blessings)

I've finally graduated to the advanced class at tae kwon do after trying to catch up with lower-belt requirements since August (I came in with a red belt, but each school's belt requirements are different). So far there hasn't been a class as crushing as some of the ones we used to have in Ithaca (once, in a fog of endorphins, I nearly ran a stop sign and T-boned a minivan on my way home), but I'm fine with easing back in to things.

Christmas

Maybe I just haven't been paying enough attention in other places I've lived, but it seems like people--or rather, institutions--in DC are very into the Christmas decorating. Really more like solstice decorating, since it's mostly tasteful trees and wreaths and snowflakes, no Santas or nativity scenes. Tonight I came home to find two motorized white reindeer on top of the overhang that shades the door to my building, a giant wreath and Christmas tree in the lobby, and--my favorite--the bank of monitors at the front desk was wrapped like a present (though not the monitor part).

Unfortunately I couldn't take pictures of any of this because my digital camera is still dead, so I borrowed this one off of Flickr. Thanks, dustmachine! But not to worry: I'm getting a new camera for Christmas.

Soapbox

I know that one of the virtues of blogs is supposed to be that they're ultra-current, but I'm going to buck the trend by writing about something I did on Tuesday.

Tuesday being the day Michael Crichton's new book came out. He gave a talk at the National Press Club in honor of the occasion, and I went because of a certain professional interest in the subject of said book, but also--I'll admit it--because Michael Crichton is famous.

He used the opportunity not to read from his new book, or even talk about his new book per se, but to pontificate. In case you're wondering, he believes that political decisions these days have nothing to do with science, and everything to do with, well, politics. Reporters don't check facts and hence feed the beast of poor scientific knowledge. What we need is a reliable system of managing information. Allowing genes to be patented is a terrible policy. Peer review is useless and only serves as a barrier to truly novel discoveries being publicized. In the future, people and organizations will be held liable for bad information they put out.

I was a little envious, frankly. Not that I'd have the hubris to try to draw out an audience of hundreds on a Tuesday night to listen to me lecture about what I think is wrong with the world, but if I wanted to, could I? No. Let alone get them to plunk down $27.95 plus tax for a pre-signed copy of my book. I have to content myself with regaling my five devoted readers with tales of what I had for lunch. Damn.

Speaking of soapboxes and science, I recommend this slightly-outdated article. I went (according to Fast Food Nation) to one of the first high schools in the nation to make an exclusive deal with Coke and post ads in the hallways, and even I found it disturbing.

Thanksgiving

On Thursday morning I flew down to Charlotte, NC to visit high school friend D.S. We made some Thanksgiving-esque side dishes and spent some quality time doing a whole lot of nothing. I'd never been to North Carolina before; my first impressions were:

• The weather is great
• The place is replete with SUVs and thin bottle blondes in tight jeans and high heels
• It takes half an hour to get anywhere.

Last night we ate a lot of cheap sushi with a couple of D.S.'s friends and then went to this club, which I found surprisingly fun. I guess I was due for some dancing.

We closed the place down, and back at D.S.'s place we had a long conversation about race and class and how some things about Pueblo weren't that bad. I went to bed at 4:00 and woke up at 6:30 to catch my flight to BWI, so the trip would have been somewhat brutal even if I hadn't had a middle seat next to a broad-shouldered man. I've developed a bad habit of sleeping through the drink service and waking up parched while the flight attendants are collecting the last of the garbage.

I arrived at my metro stop at around 11:00 and was cheered by the blue sky and fresh fall air on the final, pedestrian leg of my journey. Then I came home to my lonely cat and slept for most of the afternoon.

Winter

K was in town this past weekend, which gave me a reason to explore some new parts of the city: a jazz bar on U Street, Eastern Market, an amateur production of The Crucible. We also tried Ethiopian food, which may become a kind of rite for people who come to visit me. K flew out today, and the weather promptly went from comfortable-with-a-sweatshirt to unpleasantly cold. It hasn't taken long since moving from Ithaca for me to become completely unused to low temperatures, with dramatic results: last time the weather turned chilly I broke out in hives, and I'm afraid it might be happening again.

Hives! I am officially allergic to cold. I wonder if I could parlay this into being allowed to work from home?

Canadians

Today G.R. made a disparaging comment about how I hadn't blogged lately, which was nervy of him considering we're lucky to hear from him once a week. Rather than point this out I just said my life's been too boring to blog about lately. But that was before I arrived home to find a package from G.R.'s homeland, containing this awesome t-shirt. It's exciting if you're lazy, and you were a chemistry major, and especially if you only ordered it last week and selected the cheap shipping.

I don't want to sound prejudiced here, but is anyone else a little unsure of how to classify Canadians? They're a strange hybrid of foreigner and not-foreigner, fitting in well here apart from their superior enunciation and flappy heads. You can't teach them new words like "faucet." But once in awhile they say something that reminds you they do in fact hale from a different culture.

For example, today I had a drink after work with a Canadian friend who's lived in the U.S. for six months or so. We were talking about Al Jazeera; a friend of hers just moved here from Toronto to work for the new English version. Apparently all the non-anchor personel at the English Al Jazeera are British or Canadian because Americans don't want Al Jazeera on their resumes. There was an article in the Washington Post today that this friend thought was strangely biased against Al Jazeera, too, which led her to ask me, "Why are Americans so freaked out about Al Jazeera?"

To me Americans' automatic Al Jazeera-disliking reflex is such an obvious fact of life that I probably would never have questioned it. It would be like asking why cats hate vacuum cleaners (although a friend of mine thinks cats' ancestors were terrorized by a prehistoric feline-sucking Hoover, ingraining that aversion in their genes, so maybe that's a bad example). I could have said that post-September 11 Americans fear and despise all phrases that begin with "al," but I went with the less rascist explanation and said that the only time we ever hear about Al Jazeera is when Osama bin Laden releases a video, so of course we think they're the network of terrorists.

Here's my plan for salvaging America (and its reputation): Those of my readers who are not stealing cable should email their providers and ask them to carry Al Jazeera. We'll kill two birds with one stone: America will get more news of foreign lands, and we'll show the world we're not afraid of all things "al."

Rumsfeld: a remembrance

Glass Box
You know, it's the old glass box at the—
At the gas station,
Where you're using those little things
Trying to pick up the prize,
And you can't find it.
It's—

And it's all these arms are going down in there,
And so you keep dropping it
And picking it up again and moving it,
But—

Some of you are probably too young to remember those—
Those glass boxes,
But—

But they used to have them
At all the gas stations
When I was a kid.

—Dec. 6, 2001, Department of Defense news briefing (With thanks to Slate)

Another worthy link: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=1761585

Taxation without representation

Being a registered DC voter on election day is like being that kid who's not invited to the party everyone's been talking about for months. Something I just learned last night is that we elect a "Shadow Representative" and "Shadow Senator" to go harass Congress to give us the vote. That seems pretty strange to me, not to mention sad. I voted for the Republican for Senator because I thought the Man might be more likely to give us the vote if we started voting Republican.

Speaking of Republicans, I think a prime example of how parochial the DC election is is this statement in the official DC voter's guide by a Republican running for at-large member of the council:

Growing up in Seat Pleasant, Maryland, Marcus believes that playing sports and his parents sending him to a local church to participate in Boy Scouts were major factors that deterred him from the dangers of the neighborhood he lived in. As a son of a former union president Marcus developed a strong work ethic and an understanding that business and labor need balance and communication to exist.

He went on to Bowie State University where he received his B.S. in Communications and his M.A. in Human Resource Development. Academically, he received Bowie State's Scholar Athlete Award in 2001 and 2002. Currently, Marcus resides in Southeast Washington D.C. He enjoys distance running, football, and golf.

Did this guy update his college admission essay and send that in? Granted, a Republican's odds of winning office in the District would only look good to a snowball in hell, but how about a little effort?

Requiem for a camera

I just got back last night from a conference in Baltimore. I like conferences: the living above my means on someone else's money, the hanging out that we call networking. By about the third day I was starting to miss my real life, though--interacting only with other people in my profession for that long had gotten a little intense. I also didn't want Rocky to go too crazy.

Then, yesterday afternoon, tragedy struck. I was walking around the Johns Hopkins undergrad campus and dropped my camera, and now it no longer turns on. Sure, I got the camera for free, but it came all the way from Australia which made it special, and it's very small and cute. How will I illustrate my blog without a digital camera?

Case in point: Shown here (in one of the very last pictures taken with the camera) is the inside of a bathroom at the conference hotel. I think we can all agree that a picture of a marble bathroom is worth at least 1,000 words.

Acid test

You are 58% of a Coloradan!

You live either in Colorado or a surrounding state! Or, you are from Colorado and you belong back in this state!!!

How Colorado are you?

Updates

I haven't been blog-inspired lately, but here are updates on a few things I've mentioned here recently:

• Blogging about my broken DVD player seems to revive it. It groans, it considers its options, but still it clings to life.
• I bought a new pair of glasses since the eye doctor told me I need to start wearing them more (my contacts are starving my corneas for oxygen). They're a pretty strong statement.
• It turns out I took the wrong online training at work, meaning I'll have to do it again at some point. I did pass the test for the wrong training, though, demonstrating my ability to... um...
• Chinese is hard. I don't know whether my grey matter has hardened noticably since the last time I took Mandarin (four and a half years ago), or whether it's just very hard to absorb a language when you only go to class once a week, but I need to hit the books harder if I ever want to learn a foreign language (and I do).

Friday afternoon at the office

I hope I'm not giving away any trade secrets, but here's a sample of what I'm "learning" in mandatory online training:

Time constraints determine which combination of validity periods are allowed among different infotype records for an organizational management object as it is created and maintained.

As an office worker, my eyes are glazing over. As a writer, I'm crying inside.

Another philosophical nugget:

A person is defined as an object that holds positions within the organizational structure.

Haircut

I got about five inches of hair cut off today. I'd been bored with my hair for awhile, and then I was watching Buffy Season 5 on DVD and thought I'd like something like Alyson Hannigan had. It's a little embarassing taking a promotional photo from Buffy the Vampire Slayer to the hairdresser with you, but I got over it.

I like it, although it doesn't quite look like Willow's (even leaving aside the color). You can see what it looks like (in bad lighting but professionally styled) if you're one of my Flickr buddies.

The screen for my computer came in yesterday, so I've entered a whole new age of computing. I can download things without first erasing other things, and run more than three programs at once, and burn CDs--in short, the possibilities are endless.

Shenandoah

This weekend, on a whim, I rented a car and headed into rural Virginia. I stayed at a B&B south of Madison, drove around, looked at trees, and read the current book-club book. Sunday morning I went for a 4-mile hike in Shenandoah National Park.

It was really lovely. I realized that since my weekend in Western Maryland at the end of August I've only left DC to go to other cities--New York and Baltimore, to be exact--or the Maryland suburbs. I think I should make a point of taking advantage of my Zipcar membership at least once a month.

In other (not unrelated) news, my DVD player seems to have finally given up the ghost. Since I've blown my budget on a new computer, it will have to function as a DVD player until I feel ready for big electronic purchases again. And don't leave me comments about how DVD players cost $40--I want a non-crappy one this time.

Mac attack

Today I got my new Mac mini in the mail. This is a huge step up from the G3 from the last millenium that I'm using now. The bad news is that the monitor to accompany this beautiful machinery is still with the UPS somewhere in Utah. So the CPU will have to languish in the box for a week or so.

Overheard 2

I rode the metro this evening next to a small group of high schoolers. I was reading the Atlantic and they were chatting and giggling; I wasn't paying much attention to them. Then, just before I got off, they started saying things like,

"Oh, yeah, we could form an ad hoc committee, but anything could be an ad hoc committee!"
and,
"But I don't think we should follow Robert's Rules of Order."

Sure, maybe this could have happened anywhere. Maybe they were in the equivalent of Boys and Girls State, like we had in Colorado (do they have those in other states?). But I prefer to think that Washington is the kind of place where conversations about ad hoc committees can happen anytime, to anyone.

Hot tip: Greg's brain is now your brain. Yes, you can find out everything you need to know on his new blog. A bonus is that he's decided to show off his knowledge of HTML by making it all green and plant-y.

Questions and answers

Last night I finally figured out how to use the corkscrew on my Swiss Army knife. The approach I had been taking was to screw it in, then attempt to use brute strength to pull the cork out. This wasn't working, even though I've been doing my push-ups. Finally I figured out that the key is just to keep screwing. The cork gets destroyed in the process, as shown here, but you can't be worried about niceties like a few bits of cork in your wine when you're fighting for survival in the woods.

The reason I needed to break out the camping equipment is that NCSV accidentally broke my corkscrew when she was visiting. It wasn't much of a loss--I think I'd bought it for $.50 at a garage sale--but I missed it last night when I wanted to pour myself a glass of $3 Chuck and watch Death in Venice.

It turned out I was correct in assuming it was a movie best enjoyed with a glass of wine. It was made in 1971 and the pacing was pretty glacial. It tackled heady questions such as the relationship between art, purity, and beauty, but for me the questions raised were more along the lines of:

-Did people really dress like that in 1971?
-Why is the Polish family speaking French?
-So that guy was married before he was gay?
-Why is he bleeding from the head?
-What inspired me to get this movie, anyway?

The first question was answered when I watched the extras: the movie takes place in 1911. Whew. For the rest, I can only conclude that I was a little out of my depth with this masterpiece of Italian cinema.

The Science of Sleep

It's been rainy today, and cold. DC smells clean now but it was a sad reminder that I really need to start wearing shoes and probably long sleeves when I go out, because sandals just aren't cutting it anymore.

Schmer and I snuck out of work early today to go see The Science of Sleep. It's written and directed by Michel Gondry, who directed Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and it's very, very strange. The strangeness could be summed up by saying that the main character's dream life is more important than his waking life, and the two frequently blend together. Highly recommended for those who like their arty films served up with a liberal sprinkling of belly laughs.

Wo shi xuesheng

Today I started a weekly Chinese class. I took two semesters worth of Chinese when I was in college, but promptly forgot all but a few words. Although it starts to come back to me when I watch Chinese movies, and was also looking familiar to me last night when I finally, guiltily, reviewed a little. I skipped the very beginning course, where they teach you things like the four tones and how to pronounce "cuo," and was wondering if I should have been more ambitious--i.e. gone for a higher course. But I think I made the right choice, given that I really don't remember the characters and that this school uses traditional characters (whereas I learned simplified before).

The America I believe in

As loyal readers (all four of you) may have noticed, I don't blog about politics. In fact I don't talk about politics much anymore, not because I don't care but because I find the subject too depressing. But given what happened last week, I can't bring myself to blog about the fact that I'm going to have to start wearing glasses in public again for the first time since eighth grade.

As I understand it, Congress responded to persistent and reliable reports of American abuse of prisoners in Afghanistan, Abu Ghraib, Eastern Europe, and Guantanamo not by putting a stop to it, but by officially sanctioning George Bush's ability to define what torture is. Here's an excerpt from an email Amnesty International sent me on Friday:

It's a sad day for America and a very disappointing outcome for those of us who devote ourselves to advancing the global cause of human rights.

Yesterday, the Senate joined the House in approving an ill-considered and sweeping piece of legislation, the Military Commissions Act of 2006, that discards key human rights protections -- and our best American traditions.

This could have been a proud moment for America. Congress had the opportunity to correct the Bush administration's profoundly disturbing human rights policies.

This was an opportunity for Congress to advance the America you and I believe in. They failed to do so. In effect, they gave their stamp of approval to human rights violations. In the face of this set back, you and I must commit ourselves to working as long as it takes until we reverse the damage done yesterday to the cause of human rights.

Unlike AI, I'm not optimistic about reversing this damage, at least not in the near future. I'm pretty much just depressed and cynical. So I'm looking for suggestions on what I, or anyone else might do to constructively funnel our outrage. How do we get America to stop torturing people?

The larynx of my generation

I've long felt like an outsider among thinking twentysomethings because I didn't care for Garden State. I'd assumed I would love the movie, and I seemed to have all the characteristics of someone who would--so what was wrong with me? But hadn't I seen that ending about a dozen times before--anyone remember Friends? Now, dependably contrarian Slate has come through for me with some unapologetic Garden State bashing.

Rock & roll sleepover

This weekend three of my friends from Ithaca came down to visit, and we all went to the Virgin Music Festival in Baltimore. Since these friends know way more about music than me we didn't just roll in in mid-afternoon--no, we were there at 10:30 to make sure we didn't miss the first band. Fortunately, they were worth it: Kasabian (no, I'd never heard of them either). NSCV didn't pace herself at all. She was the only one in the crowd dancing during Kasabian, and boy did she put us to shame.

Other acts I saw (in chronological order):
Wolfmother
The Raconteurs
Gnarls Barkley
The Killers
Thievery Corporation
The Who
Red Hot Chili Peppers
The Flaming Lips

It was a lot of fun, if exhausting. I'll leave the reviews to the real critics (it's almost my bedtime) and share the language-geek anecdote behind this picture. I saw the sign hanging up at a booth selling some sort of roasted nuts (which didn't smell at all, by the way), and had to memorialize it. When I walked over to take the picture, I had to wait for a guy to take his own photo with his cell phone. As he started to walk away I said, "I guess we both had the same thought. It's just so bad."

Cellphone cam guy: "Yeah, me and my friends have this thing about Baltimore and its inappropriate use of quotation marks."

Me: "I thought it was everywhere, but this is particularly egregious."

Cellphone cam guy: "You're very cool."

Me: "You, too."

And then we went our separate ways.

Danger

HSBFF wanted to tour the Capitol, but tours are only offered there on Mondays and he didn't want to go on September 11, because it seemed too dangerous to him--a decision for which I mocked him. Instead he went yesterday, after a crack-addled armed man went for a run through the building. Oh goddess of irony, to what do I owe this blessing?

Kitchen island

My kitchen literally has no counter space. My microwave had been sitting in a box on the floor until last night. I intended to buy a kitchen island, and looked at many on craigslist, but there were logistical problems: getting a truck to carry it with, and perhaps timing the purchase so that there'd be a friend around to help me haul it to and from the truck.

But last night I saw a sign posted in the elevator and decided to take advantage of an even better resource than Zipcar and visiting friends: an apartment sale in my building. After all, people in my building face the same no-counter-space problem I do, and it's easy to talk them in to helping me haul stuff up to my place in the elevator. So I picked up this lovely kitchen island for $50, including the cutting board. It's perfect. The tea kettle was another $2.

Last night's other big event was that I got disc 1 of Season 2 of The Office, fresh out on DVD, and felt compelled to watch all six episodes (with deleted scenes) so that I could get another disc for the weekend. Satisfying, yes, but it took me until 12:30 and I felt more easily-annoyed than usual today.

Speaking of annoying, I've stopped getting HBO and Showtime. One disadvantage of stealing cable is that one can't complain about such things, at least not to the cable company. I'm stuck with hoping my premium channels will come back someday.

Weekend in review

Friday: HSBFF finally arrives in DC in the evening. We go out to Dakota Cowgirl to meet some friends of his for dinner. Our mustachioed waitress decides HSBFF is giving her attitude and swats him with her order pad. My veggie burger isn't bad.

Saturday: We head to the Mall, starting at the Library of Congress's Madison building, the inside of which resembles the public university in our hometown. The Jefferson buiding is much more impressive, especially the Gutenburg Bible and the replica of the 16th-century world map that named America America. We take pictures at the Supreme Court and the Capitol, then head past a "Veterans for Peace" demonstration to the National Archives. I'd been there before, but not for 12 years.

Tired, we stop by the White House to ogle a black-clad commando, then head home. Dinner that night is Ethiopian, which HSBFF likes but declares "pretty much like American food but with different spices." We attempt to make a coffee cake for Sunday's brunch, but thanks to an improper pan sizing disaster it becomes necessary for me to wake up at 6:00 a.m. and go to Safeway for more butter on...

Sunday: We bake a coffee cake and two quiches with no major disasters, also managing to make some excellent fruit salad and a small smorgasbord of cheeses and salami to go with the Italian bread. We head to the roof with all this plus mimosa ingredients to await our guests.

It goes pretty well, overall: about eight people show up other than us, although they don't eat much. I blame the heat. The cheese/salami smorgasbord isn't popular and soon comes to resemble something they'd serve in Mongolia. I take it down to Rocky, but even she won't touch it. Seemingly she only likes Meow Mix and plastic bags. Really: I can't leave plastic bags on the floor or she will eat them. But I digress.

After a few hours in the sun the brunchers are getting pretty warm as well. They trickle out, and I go to Adams Morgan Day with TOWWAS because HSBFF feels he has better things to do. I buy a 1989 Rand McNally World Atlas at a garage sale on the way back, complete with two Germanys, the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia, and Czechoslovakia. I figure it will be worth more than $2 some day.

Overheard

So here's what happened to me this weekend: my Internet stopped working. Then I went to New York City (the events were unrelated). The technicians just came and fixed the Internet, and fortunately didn't notice/comment on the fact that I'm stealing cable from their company.

A snippet of conversation I overheard on the bus from DC to NYC on Saturday:

"Oh, I despised her. Any girl who would hang out with dorks just because she likes the attention... that's why she went to Cornell, you know."

I was amused.

In NYC I met my best friend from high school (henceforth to be referred to as HSBFF), whom I haven't seen in two years because he lives in Seattle. We ate ethnic foods and walked around and went to some really gay bars and the UN. We stayed in a very crappy, overpriced hostel. I wish one of my good friends would move to New York so that I'd have a free place to stay there again.

On Sunday night we were walking down the sidewalk and saw someone we'd known in high school and hadn't seen since. I think this is a bigger coincidence than the time I was chatting with a girl in Ithaca and we realized we'd been in the same Turkish class... in Turkey.

HSBFF is coming to visit me on Thursday. He'll be my first visitor in the penthouse, not including my sister (who helped me move here).

Mystery solved (sort of)

Fri, Sep 1, 2006 at 12:55 PM

Well this could explain why my best friend didn't get this lil joke email. My sincerest apologies. See what I get for trying to do things half asleep? I am so very very sorry. Not sure what I did other than Williams was her maiden name. What a dork I am. Have a great day! Pamela

OMG! Another One!

Date: Sep 1, 2006 9:54 AM

Subject: Literati Notice #2

Reply | Reply to all | Forward | Print | Add sender to Contacts list | Delete this message | Report phishing | Show original | Message text garbled?

Mrs. Allison, Since it would seem that you did not receive our first notice, this is to inform you that on Friday, Sept 1st, 2006, all Literati games between DA baby bear and DA pinky fuzzball shall be played in Social Lounge 33. We appreciate your cooperation on this matter and apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused. Thank You, The Literati Staff Pamela [rest of signature withheld] I guess I'm going to have to email Pam back and let her know I'm not Mrs. Allison. Maybe she'll keep me on the mailing list anyway, if I'm lucky.

Message From the Ether

Actual email I just received:

Date: Sep 1, 2006 4:39 AM
Subject: Literati Memo

Reply | Reply to all | Forward | Print | Add sender to Contacts list | Delete this message | Report phishing | Show original | Message text garbled?

Mrs. Allison, This is to inform you that on Friday, Sept 1st, 2006, all Literati games between da baby bear and da pinky fuzzball shall be played in Social Lounge 33. We appreciate your cooperation on this matter and apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused. Thank You, The Literati Staff Pamela [rest of signature withheld]

Is this spam of some new and bewildering sort? Or did it just go to the wrong email address? Either way, I appreciate the touch of surreality it lends to my morning.

[And yes, I am aware that 'surreality' is not a real word. Shakespeare made them up too, you know.]

Pillow

Here's one for you Coupling fans: Today I spent $38 on a pillow. Why would I do such a thing, seeing that I come from frugal stock, and indeed the futon this pillow graces cost a mere $100? Well, I went to a three-story department store today after work that was in the final stages of its closing sale. It's called Hecht's, and it must have been pretty upscale until very recently, but it was kind of eerie by the time I found it. The first floor had nothing but store fixtures left, and some 70%-off rugs (originally priced in the $3,000-$9,000 range). Upstairs the selection was only slightly better. It looked like most of the affordable things had been carted off long ago, leaving, for example, a wide choice of dyed-pink foxfur coats.

But it seemed there must be something for me in this going-out-of-business sale. Wandering through the bedding section I spotted this pillow. It didn't have a price tag, but it was 70% off and I thought, how much can a pillow be?

$170, that's how much. By the time I found this out, though, I felt invested in buying the pillow. I'd been wandering around the store with it for awhile, having a last phone conversation with Nell before she disappears into Siberia, trying to find a cashier willing to ring me up... and after all if the pillow used to be $170 there must be something special about it, right?

I think it adds a lot to the futon. Unfortunately it makes the other two pillows feel bad--I think they cost $5 each at BigLots. I'm going to have to go donate some money toward stopping genocide in Darfur to atone for this.

Irony from an unexpected source

Pig
Originally uploaded by ChezShawna.

Today I got a box of cookies from my parents. It also included a small tissue-paper wrapped bundle with a note shown here (it says "I am a housewarming gift. Don't throw me away!").

I have nothing to say that would do this pig justice, so I won't try.

Zhongwen

Today I signed up for Chinese classes. They don't start til October, but it's a step in my doing-more-stuff plan. Seriously: I've spent $15 on public transportation since I got here, and I don't even have a car. It's a sad state of affairs. But soon I'll know Chinese and can explore China, which I've heard is pretty far away.

I'd like to express my solidarity with TOWWAS, who's trapped in some sort of cyber-limbo. I mean, didn't she have enough problems, what with the cough and the mysterious wisps of smoke emanating from her steering column? Google really needs to get its act together: today it started sending me someone else's email. She might be my alter ego--same name (different middle initial), a year older than me, same astrological sign. We've both lived in California and New York. But she's a lesbian. How do I know all this? Not because I've been reading her email (that would be creepy). It's the beauty of MySpace.

The Best Prize is a Sur-prise

The surprise was that Veronica Mars wasn't in my mailbox when I got home today. Why, Netflix, why must you fail me in my time of need?

So I watched the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory remake on stolen premium cable instead. I seem to be the only person of my generation not to have seen the original, so I didn't have too many expectations. This movie was a chance to ponder once again what a strange and wonderful actor Johnny Depp is. Also the interesting stereotypes. For example, to all appearances, Charlie lives in England. But when he's in the store and finds the golden ticket, suddenly people with American accents start offering him dollars for it. Because Americans are so vulgar we commodify everything? The kid playing the violent video game was, of course, from Denver... Columbine, anyone? I thought it was a little strange that he'd gotten so smart when his weakness was supposed to be TV. Everything he said made a lot of sense, but the moral seemed to be that with optimism and old-fashioned gumption, one can overcome the laws of physics and logic.

I did enjoy the movie, though, moralizing and all.

31 Days in DC

Well, I've been here a month now, and here's a short list of things I've done: unpacked, started a new job, acquired a futon and a cat, sold my car, started reading Wonkette, read Middlesex, watched 5/6 of the first season of Veronica Mars, met a half-second cousin, started a new blog, and gotten a haircut. The last might not sound like a big deal to normal people, but it had been six months. I was gently reprimanded about the state of my split ends.

I've become addicted to Veronica Mars, so much so that I added her to my MySpace friends. The final disk (in which the big mystery is finally solved) arrives tomorrow from Netflix--a big moment for me. Season Two is coming out this month, but I'm going to try taking at least a few months break before diving into that one. That might give me time to take care of some of the more interesting items on my to-do list, like finding a new tae kwon do school and taking Chinese. Not to mention decorating my apartment.

By the way, anybody have suggestions on what to do when your walls are so hard that nails bend when you try to hang pictures?

Success!

I did it! I sold my car. The upside of the pain I went through to do so is that I now feel convinced that I really, really wanted to sell that car. My life seems simpler already.

The DMV in Montgomery County was much nicer than the one in DC. There was a parking lot and no metal detector, the inside was painted a soothing shade of light blue, and there were skylights. The real shocker was that the staff were friendly and helpful.

Here's a parting shot of my car, which I owned for two years almost to the day. Goodbye, Grommit, and thanks for all the memories.

The Crushing Difficulty of Simplification

WARNING: This entry contains extensive bitching and graphic scenes of frustration.

As readers of this blog know, I am attempting to simplify my life by selling my beloved car, Grommit. I recently got Grommit's title in the mail from the bank where I'd just paid him off, along with a letter asking me to make an appointment at my local DMV to get the bank officially released as lienholder on the car. The bank is in California.

I put this task off for a week or two. On Monday, however, I found a guy who wanted to buy the car (yay!) so decided to get the title business taken care of. So yesterday morning I went down to the DMV, which inexplicably is located very near the Capitol so of course has grossly inadequate parking. Having miraculously managed to secure a space on a street a mere 4 blocks away, I walked in, stood in line and explained the situation.

Of course the woman behind the counter had no idea what I was talking about. She suggested I go to the DMV in California. When I convinced her this was not the best course of action, she told me that I would need to

1.) get a DC drivers license, requiring
a.) proof of address
b.) my social security card, and
c.) my birth certificate

2.) surrender my current California title and wait 10-15 days for DC to mail me a new one.

So I marched out in a huff. I hope they learned their lesson.

Then I moved on to plan B: get my form filled out at the Maryland DMV while transferring ownership to Mr. Buyer, who lives in that state. I was scheduled to meet Mr. Buyer at the DMV this afternoon but called ahead to try to determine if plan B would be feasible. Maryland DMV worker was also confused, but seemed to think it could be done. She did tell me, though, that we'd need to print out a bill of sale from the website and get it notarized before coming in. We should be able to get it notarized at any bank, though, she said.

Thus Mr. Buyer and I decided to meet at his bank instead of at the DMV so that he could procure a check at the same time that we got the form notarized. At least I thought that's what we decided. Mr. Buyer thought we were meeting at a suburban metro station. His directions included the name of the major road said station is on, plus the not-at-all helpful information that it was in a downtown-type area and had a bridge to a tall building. By the time I got there I was already ready to strangle him. I really hate driving in this town.

But I did get there, with only a little bit of backtracking, and Mr. Buyer and I were off. Mr. B is a skinny Iranian-American kid with pungent B.O. It's worth noting that he's starting medical school soon. He told me to turn left to get to his bank, and half a mile or so down the road said we'd passed it and had me turn around. It turned out we should have turned right in the first place. He apologized. We eventually got to his bank, where the notary had gone home for the day. A bank employee had us wait for 10 minutes while he called another branch to make sure their notary was on duty, then printed out a MapQuest map for us. This seemed like a nice touch until we were three miles down the road and were most assuredly not on the right track: it was time for another U-turn.

(Later, on closer inspection, I determined that the directions we'd gotten were not actually from one branch to the other branch. There were from some unidentified location in that suburb to the branch we needed to go to, and they'd directed us in exactly the wrong way.)

After about 6 miles of fruitless searching for the branch, during which we became increasingly discouraged about the possibility of reaching the DMV before its 4:30 closing time, Mr. B and I concurred we should just go to any bank for the notarization. I thought this was a good idea because I thought Mr. B had mentioned earlier that he'd already been to the bank that day to get the check for the car--another miscommunication. Mr. B thought this was a good idea because he is an idiot.

There are lots of banks in Rockville. A substantial proportion of them, we found, close at 3:00 pm. Finally we found one that was open (until 7:00!) and had a notary on duty. It was unlikely we'd make it to the DMV on time, but at least the whole excursion would accomplish something. Or so it seemed.

We sat down with the notary. She put our names in her book. She told me to sign my part of the bill of sale.

"This would be the time when you give me the check," I said to Mr. B.

He didn't have it. He apologized profusely.

I hadn't been exactly nice to Mr. B so far that afternoon. He's easily the worst navigator ever to sit shotgun in Grommit. But at that point I lost my cool a little.

"How," I asked, "did you plan to buy a car?"

More apologizing as we left the bank and got into the car yet again. Oh, he thought he'd just get the check when we got the bill of sale notarized, he forgot, this was his first time buying a car, etc.

He decided that the best course of action would be to go back to the first branch and at least get the check today. He apologized some more, and I wished he'd stop because I felt like the ball was in my court to tell him it was ok, and it really wasn't. If I weren't a 20-something vegetarian I would have been worried about my blood pressure. As it was I was worried I might commit vehicular homicide.

I dropped him off at the bank. We decided to meet at a DMV in a different suburb (one closer to the city) at 9:00 am to continue the odyssey.

Stewing in my car on the way back home, it occurred to me that I could make myself feel better by enjoying my car while I still had it. And the obvious way to enjoy my car was to take advantage of Rockville's plethora of box stores and strip malls. My first stop was at the Container Store, where I bought a handy cart (shown eons ago at the start of this entry). That's what people use to shop for groceries when they don't have a car. My other stops were Ann Taylor Loft (no luck this time), Baskin Robbins (nothing like a milkshake to calm the soul), and Trader Joe's, where I stocked up like a girl who won't get back to Trader Joe's for a long, long time. It worked: I recovered much of my equanimity. Only to lose it again when I got back into the traffic hell that is the District and almost hit a blind man.

Will I manage to sell my car before grinding my teeth down to nubs and losing my new job due to absenteeism? Stay tuned.

The Apocalypse

That's right, guys: sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I hope you've already built your bomb shelters. I'm sure there will soon be a shortage of concrete. This newsletter was left outside my apartment door this evening.






But perhaps this provides some cause for optimism. Do you think they'll deliver to my bomb shelter?

In other religious news, I think this must be the best snippet to come out of the Mel Gibson anti-Semite debacle: "his twistedly homoerotic spank-movie The Passion of the Christ..."