It's Really Big...No, Bigger Than That...It Was Big

Time to get my geek on. Ever wonder how big the Starship Enterprise D was? Well, take a look how it stacks up to various Seattle landmarks(click through to RFjason.com):



Neat. Interestingly, "Starship" is not recognized by the Blogger spell checker. It wants to change it to the "Steamship" Enterprise D, and I have to admit, a steam-punk Enterprise would be kind of cool.

Above Ground, Where The Warlocks Really Are

At my old gym, in the heart of DC's Chinatown, the facility was buried in the bowels of the complex of buildings that had sprung up around the Phone Booth(the erstwhile MCI Center, now going by Verizon). It was the official gym of the Washington Nationals, which is a lot like the Washington Generals sponsoring a basketball court(I kid, I kid...the boys in Federal Red are actually playing well lately, almost .500 ball since a 1-8 start). Being twenty feet underground brought one very appreciated blessing: cell phones were useless.

At my new gym, near Times Square in NYC, the gym floor and locker rooms are actually two stories above ground. Now no one is dumb enough (yet) to bring a cellphone onto the gym floor -- though I have seen some crackberries -- but the locker room is apparently a no-holds-barred zone. Conversations with colleagues, friends, and significant others abound.

The topic is usually mundane: business, errands, what to TiVo, etc. What's interesting, at least to me, is that no one is the least embarrassed to say where they are calling from, or what they are doing. I often hear:

"Yeah, I'm in the gym locker room...toweling off, putting on my pants...anyway..."

It's very nonchalant. Since modesty is not an issue, I think they should go a step further:

"Yeah, I'm in the gym locker room...toweling off my testicles, spread-eagle...putting on my pants, sans underwear, doing a nice tilt-a-whirl impression as I'm trying to balance the phone while getting dressed, mooning three or four people in the process..."

Why leave out any details?

Another Empty Room

My new job in NYC has been great, for the most part. As with any new endeavor, there was -- or rather there still is -- a period of adjustment. For one thing, hardly anyone comes in before ten. Happily, jeans and a t-shirt are accepted as a web developer's standard uniform; just as it should be.

Of course there are the standard NYC/DC differences. Sometimes I still reach for my MetroCard when I'm about to exit a subway station, forgetting that it's not necessary here. Seeing promos for the Yankees and Mets, instead of my usual summer stalwarts the Orioles(and now the Nationals), is a little weird. Office-wide e-mails seek takers for extra Red Sox/Yankee tickets, not Redskins/Cowboys. PathMark replaces Giant. Overall, though, it's been a smooth transition, aided by my many visits over the last two ears.

Some things have remained the same. For one, I'm still in the middle of an office move. Apparently, my new employers are transitioning a lot of people to a new building(thankfully, it's just across the street). I was seated among the people slated to move, because apparently, no one had any idea what to do with me.

My first day, everything was normal. People seated all around, working, talking, etc. My desk-neighbor shared the same name as me, which led to some hilarious instances of me whipping my head up when people called for him. Well, it was funny to me.

By the end of the first week, four people, their computers, desks, and phones were gone. The following Monday, everyone but four people(of about twenty) had been moved. My doppelganger desk-neighbor was gone, as was his desk, and my chair. I borrowed an errant one from the empty expanse of the once populated room.

Now, there is no one here except me and a woman whose job it is to, as far as I can tell, sit behind me at a desk -- sans computer -- and periodically tell me about doughnuts and juice available in the kitchen.

New Songs I've Listened To Lately

"Believe", The Bravery - If there is a Killers/The Bravery feud, this is a mightier weapon than "When You Were Young". Instead of xeroxing Springsteen into tonelessness¹, the NYC group kept the 80s new-wave pop sound, tightly wrapping it around this song. Every bit as catchy as "An Honest Mistake".

"The Next Untouchable", Cajun Dance Party - From the start, this song kicks. It has a dark, sinister sound anchored by fuzzy guitar riffs and barely-there keyboard/synth accompaniment. Garage dance music, if there is such a thing. I'll have to pick up their debut album when it comes out later in the year.

and finally, the best for last...

"Icky Thump", The White Stripes - I make it rule -- despite being a music nerd -- to avoid singles off of albums I know I'm going to buy anyway. The logic being I'd like to listen to the album in it's entirety, fresh, with no pre-conceptions. Actually, maybe this makes me a bigger music nerd. "Icky Thump", though, I couldn't resist. And I think it's ruined the upcoming Stripes album of the same name for me.

The White Stripes are proof rock will never die, at least not in my lifetime. Hard, crunchy guitars, pounding bass drums; this is what hard rock should sound like. It's epic without being bombastic. They've taken the best of 70s rock and made it their own.

How can the rest of the album live up to this? Why, why did I give in to temptation?

¹Who would The Bravery have to copy to truly mirror The Killers? Tom Petty? Waits? Hopefully, we'll never know.

The Things You See On The Subway

Far be it from me to criticize the work of others -- especially work I haven't even read -- but I find this hilarious:



"Flip" Flippen? How can I take anything the man writes seriously? I find hard to believe that a man whose first name is "Flip" -- a sitcom wacky neighbor name if I've ever heard one -- has anything pertinent to say on what's holding me back. If I wanted advice on how to handle dating problems or my arch-nemesis down the hall, then I'll call Flip.

OK, I'm done being an asshole. Maybe his book makes some important points. Next time I'm at a Borders, I'll flip through it a bit.

I've Got Two Weeks In Me

I should have my own place in a couple weeks; the first of June to be precise. Which is good, because my girlfriend's roommate is back. Over G-Mail chat, my girlfriend let me know she would be back Saturday, and "She Fucking Hates Me" comes on. Fitting.

Never mind why I have Puddle Of Mudd on my iPod(because that song kicks ass), let's just focus on the hellish existence I will be living for the next two weeks. I'm not exaggerating when I say I'd rather pop the puss-filled pimples on Satan's ass then spend more than five minutes in the same room with that woman. Negative energy surrounds and radiates from the woman.

I'll just have to lay low for a while. My stuff has been regulated to a corner of the apartment to be "out of the way" and I'm going to wait until she's done in the morning before I even emerge from the bedroom.

Not that it's easy to have a third, new person your place; but I've tried to make friends many times, and to dispense with modesty, I'm quiet, I wash, dry and clean all of my dishes -- and hers. Oh well...June 1st. Come quick.

My Desk Without Me In It

Before I left for New York, I had a glimpse of what my life could have been.

On a whim, Brian and I visited DOT's new building. It was my last day, so I figured why not; I could see what I'd be missing.

The old building sat right atop the L'Enfant stop and was, in every way, a typical Federal building: rooms full of cubicles and offices saturated in boring tones of gray and taupe. The new building was only two more stops down the Green Line, at the Navy Yards stop. After a loud ride full of freshly released school kids, we climbed out onto New Jersey Avenue and found, much to our surprise, a very modern facility waiting for us. A circular bay of huge glass doors; a giant DOT seal on the lobby floor; actual Security turnstiles; two huge atriums(one of which houses much improved cafeteria and snack shop facilities); and huge, clean, talking elevators. Was I missing out?

Apparently not. Cubicles had made way for a honeycomb of workstations, clustered together with no thought given to privacy or headaches. People had been grumbling about this since the workstations had been revealed almost a year ago, and they've been vindicated. I don't know how good vindication feels when you

At that moment, though, we were hopefully optimistic. Or at least Brian was, since it was probably my first and final time there.

The web team had been prepping to move for the past two weeks. Crates were packed, computers, monitors, keyboards and mice labeled. Here, names were taped to every one's new assigned desk. Including, curiously, mine.




A strange site, considering I'd never work at this desk. I thought about everything I was leaving behind. This would have been security -- for the most part -- and stability. This could have been my life. I sat in it, just so I could say I did it once. It was comfortable...perhaps too much.

Summertime In The City

The New City, New Job Hits of 5/16/07

"Fireball", The Slats
"New York, New York", Ryan Adams
"My Little Brother", Art Brut
"Juicebox", The Strokes
"Rotten Hell", Menomena ("all those opposed can rot in hell...")
"Ordinary People", John Legend
"On Broadway", The Drifters
"Out On The Weekend", Girls In Hawaii
"This House Is A Circus", The Arctic Monkeys
"Hang Me Up To Dry", Cold War Kids
"Fashion", Earl Greyhound
"Riding On The Subway", Jesse Malin
"New York Apartment", Bill Hicks
"Changes", David Bowie
"Over The Hills And Far Away", Led Zeppelin
"Train Under Water", Bright Eyes
"In Transit", Albert Hammond Jr.
"Every Single Line Means Something", Marnie Stern
"She Will Only Bring You Happiness", Mclusky
"New Slang", The Shins

So Far...

Last week, I moved the rest of my stuff out of my old apartment and cleaned it top to bottom. I only lived in Columbia Heights a year(actually, a little less), and it showed. There wasn't much stuff to move. The only big furniture item was my bed; other than that there were just boxes of books, DVDs, bags of clothes, and my laptop. So it didn't take long to get from this:





To this:



Most of my stuff is still back in DC; I brought my clothes and my computer. The essentials.

It's so far, so good. I've seen two places, and I want them booth. I have a good vibe about one. We'll see what tomorrow brings.

Happy Mothers Day, and to everyone back in DC/Maryland, I miss you already.

Almost Time

What appeared on Yahoo's front page this afternoon:



A thoughtful story on toxins found in the common American kitchen.

What straight men saw:



Er...what? Yeah, toxins. Gotta have your toxins.

Start Spreading The News...

Today, I leave for my last visit to New York. In two weeks I will become a permanent resident. Yes, I'm leaving DC - the city of class presidents - for the city that never sleeps, to become an insomniac. I'm taking a job there with a great ad agency; I'll be a front-end web developer for them. So, excitement abounds in my small corner of the world.

I've had a good job with great people the last two years, and I will miss them and my friends and family here in the DC/Maryland area. There will be much visiting. But as a wise man once said, wherever you go, there you are.

Have a good weekend.

Two Months Late

King For A Day » Bobby Conn

Website: http://www.bobbyconn.com/ || Running Time: 52:00 || Label: Thrilljockey

Bobby Conn used to fancy himself the Anti-Christ. He ended the charade after the 2000 election, apparently realizing it's no fun to play at evil when there are real false prophets and deceivers running the country. His last album -- 2004's Homeland -- mocked and satirized Bush's America with genre-hopping indie rock. His new album King For A Day is lighter fare: instead of the Washington Post he turns to US! Weekly, and uses the fantasy world of his dreams, rather than the nightmare of reality, for inspiration.

An attempt at rock opera(though absent any real narrative, the album is the soundtrack to a planned companion movie), the record delves into the cult of celebrity and the power of delusion. With nary a heavy, depressing issue in sight Conn is free to channel Freddie Mercury and David Bowie and create some dramatic soundscapes and witty pop songs. Backed by most of his old band The Glass Gypsies, Conn touches on glam rock, psychedelia, a little disco and pop filtered through experimental indie rock.

The album opens with an eight minute instrumental(something the Anti-Christ might do, I grant you), "Vanitas". Sparse acoustic guitars and lonely drums join an ominous Latin chorus -- ominous being the token role for dead languages -- before an onslaught of electric guitars and violins hits. The pyrotechnics feel cathartic, clearing away the dreariness of past records and current times for truly diversionary material.

The lazy, dreamy title track "King For A Day" sails right along through Conn's night job of worshiped, entourage toting rock star whose toes are sucked by adoring European fans before crashing under hammered power chords, pounding drumming and the realization he still has to be back at his day job Monday morning.

Which raises the obvious question, what kind of day job could a man who dresses like Eddie Izzard and gets shrimped in the basements of English rock clubs possibly have? I imagine him fronting the revived Queen instead of Paul Rodgers, not backing a Dell workstation. "Love Let Me Down", a hazy look at love from a star's stage, could find a place on Jazz. "Twenty One" delves into some disco pop, though Conn's falsetto sounds disturbingly like the creepy senior-citizen pedophile from Family Guy. On "(I'm Through With) My Ego" he delivers an over the top, lounge worthy vocal performance.

You never know where he'll go next, and he mixes it up with mesmerizing instrumentals: the mystical, marching "A Glimpse Of Paradise" and the frantic, driven "Sinking Ship". You know those moments when everything clicks and a note or a voice resonates with something in you and that oh hell yes feeling takes over? "Mr. Lucky" has one, now a favorite of mine. After Monica BouBou's soft voice fades out at the three minute mark, Conn belts out a passionate, swaggering "I wanna live!" over a blazing blues-rock guitar. And if I told you it was a time-traveling Mick Jagger, you would believe me.

Bobby Conn may tire being socially conscious, but he never tires of putting out original, great sounding records.

eMusic || Amazon || iTunes

Ten New Messages - The Rakes

Ten New Messages » The Rakes

Website: http://www.therakes.co.uk || Running Time: 43:37 || Label: V2

2007 is the year of the sophomore album. Bloc Party, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and the Arcade Fire have already released theirs; soon, the Arctic Monkeys will follow. One offering, though, has slipped under the radar: Ten New Messages, from the UK band The Rakes. Which is a shame, because it's the best so far.

Like their 2005 debut Capture/Release, this album is effortlessly cool and deceivingly simple. There's nothing here you or your friend's band couldn't play after a few listens, but -- and this is an important but -- no one else could put it together quite like The Rakes: the sharp, energetic post-punk hooks and Alan Donohue's everyman, escapist lyrics are a perfect fit. His slightly detached vocal style is perfect for the chugging guitars surrounding him. Intelligent, Donohue writes lyrics that are witty ("on the subject of my love life/ I've been left behind") but don't bash you over the head with conceited English-Lit-speak attempts to show you how clever he is.

Ten New Messages largely sticks to themes of it's predecessor: everyday life and drudgery, but adds a dash of social commentary. Besides "Terror!", Capture/Release left the world outside the office and the bar to itself; this record gets right into it with "The World Was Mess But His Hair Was Perfect". Instead of a Bright Eyes style metaphorical Bush ass-reaming, though, Donohue views things through the eyes of a guy just trying to a have a good night out while the world goes mad: "You slag off America in the pub/ Saying the war was shite/ Then in the club/ Drink some Buds and smoke some Marlboro Lights...". The channeled commentary continues on "Suspicious Eyes", a commuting tale told from several different perspectives: the person who suspects a suicide bomber is on the train, and the guy with a beard and a bag wondering why they're "all acting like they've never seen a brown person before". "When Tom Cruise Cries" deals with the horror of a real terror attack contrasted with the fake drama of celebrity rags, as Donahue narrates us through his experiences trying to call someone during the 2005 London bombings.

The constant presence of fear makes the record feel like a darker addendum to Capture/Release, still, it offers some careless fun with "We Danced Together", a song that will keep all those skinny, beautiful girls who want to dance(but want "credibility", not "Fergalicious") from abandoning the hipster venues where no one but them ever dances for real dance clubs(that play "Fergalicious", or at least a re-mix). Just for that, this should be every skinny-jean and tie wearing boy's song of the year. "Little Superstitions" is The Rakes first stab at a "love" song, layering a little sweetness on top of their ultra-catchy sound. The album ends with "Leave The City And Come Home", a slow, bittersweet summary of all the urban "perks" that sound ridiculous and empty when spelled out(yes, I live in the city; no, I'm not moving -- I've mastered the phrase "well, that isn't talking about me.")

eMusic || Amazon || iTunes

Furious Fingers

In my review of Marnie Stern's debut album, In Advance Of A Broken Arm, I said that her guitar playing must be a thing to behold. Thanks to YouTube, we can...behold it. Some videos of her playing live(all of these show her playing some insane guitar on "Vibrational Match")








Finally, here's a proper music video for her song "Every Single Line Means Something":

Why Slate, Why?

I'm reading something on washingtonpost.com when I see an interesting sidebar link: an article about the legacy of the MLB Wildcard. So I click on it, and I briefly gaze upon Slate's home page before the most horrifying internet ad of all time takes up the ENTIRE screen:

I don't know about you, but this isn't the face I want to see filling up my monitor on a Monday morning:


Maybe it's the mis-aligned eyes, or the pained expression - but blown up to 1024 x 742 pixels, this face is horrifying. Thanks Slate, thanks a lot.

After A Wet Weekend, Reflection

Dumbest Thing I Did Last Weekend: I saw A Perfect Stranger.

Dumbest Thing I Said Last Weekend: (after putting on a baseball cap) "Wow, I look like Matt Damon in that movie were he wore a hat."

Dumbest Thing My Girlfriend Asked Me To Do Last Weekend: She wanted me to wait outside while she was doing some midnight shopping at the 125th St. PathMark grocery store. For anyone who doesn't now, 125th is main street Harlem, and being whiter than Woolite, I stand out. Imagine the possible conversations, had I waited outside:

Amused Passerby: Hey honky¹, what are you doing here?

Me: Er, waiting.

Passerby: For what?

Me: ...Gentrification?

Dumbest Thing I Saw: The last fifteen minutes of RV, the Robin Williams comedy, also starring Larry David's fake wife -- playing William's fake wife -- JoJo, Jeff Daniels, and some forgettable people. On the bus ride home, the driver started the movie with only the aforementioned fifteen minutes left to go; surprisingly, no one asked for him to rewind it, and I had no problem following the plot.

All things considered, a pleasant weekend. The torrent of rain in NYC delayed my return a day, meaning an extra day with my girlfriend, which is always good.

Back at the office, things are...normal. For the most part. Still, job security does not exist for a government contractor. Looks like I picked the wrong week to quit sniffing glue.

¹True Story: One my first DC apartments was on S street near North Capitol; I went exploring shortly after moving in, and after rounding a street corner around the Shaw/Howard University Metro stop, I heard "What up, HONKY!" shouted from a passing car. I thought that was hilarious.

What's With The Wheel?

I'm troubled by the film Maverick. I haven't found hidden anti-semitism(unless the James Coburn character is intended to be a Jewish stereotype, which given recent events, seems strangely plausible) which is what everyone looks for now in Mel Gibson movies(it's much easier to find latent racism in old Seinfeld episodes; Kramer "accidentally" dons blackface through overtanning in one them for Christ's sake¹). In fact, what's troubling me has nothing to do with Gibson, the over-abundance of country music, or suspending the disbelief that Alfred Molina is capable of being scary without six murderous mechanical arms. No, what troubles me is Jodie Foster.

Maverick is the only movie in which I find Foster attractive. As Annabelle Bransford, she is a conniving, seducing thief. She has long curly blond hair, wears low cut dresses, and breathes hard when excited. And like most men, I do enjoy her Southern. In no other role does Foster make me enthusiastic to see her naked. Why is that?

I know Foster's Clarice Starling was supposed to be a virginal, sexual foil to Anthony Hopkins' demented Hannibal Lecter in that movie with a dead moth on the poster, but whose title mentions silent lambs. She is porcelain, pure, and her legs are probably joined at the knee². Which is why I never went for her; kissing her would be like kissing your sister. She's practically a nun with a gun. The relationship with Lecter just screams closet goth, plus he would probably rip your face off for looking at her twice. Or once, even.

In Sommersby, she lets Richard Gere aka Arman Tanzarian hang even after she knows he is an impostor(not her real husband), and therefore innocent. Why? For that final, Oscar grubbing final scene by his grave. Another strike against the film is it's another "noble white man helps black people" movie, which I think we've all had enough of(now "noble white woman teacher helps black students"...apparently that's not played out yet).

It's impossible to think about her character in Nell in any sexual way, because you will go to hell. She plays a couple of annoying single mothers in Panic Room and Flightplan. In the former she's completely neurotic, and in the latter she's still grieving her recently deceased husband -- no real shot there. In fact, Contact is the only other movie where I find her even remotely attractive, and that's mainly because she is a)brilliant, b) passionate, and c) puts out on the first date with Matthew McConaughey. Which brings me to why I think I find her irresistible in Maverick.

Annabelle Bransford is a slutty bad girl. She uses her looks and her charms in tandem with ruthless cunning to be an exceptional thief. She won't pester you to marry, but she will fuck your dad when you're not around. She's all for hour-long trysts in hotel rooms, but then she'll rob you while you're soaking in the tub. She's the girl mom warned you about, yet still can't resist; she's the Queen of Hearts, always your best bet³. Especially if you think half the fun is in the chase, because you will be chasing her -- usually to get back your wallet.

I'm not sure what it says about me that I find all of these things irresistible; I guess -- like many immature twenty-somethings -- I find the allure of the exciting, damaged, and sexually aggressive members of the opposite sex too strong to break free from their siren call. It would help, though, if Clarice ever let anyone get to second base.

¹The episode is "The Wife"; Kramer's black girlfriend is horrified when he shows up "over-tanned" and her father/grandfather, I can't remember which, says "I thought you said you were bringing a white boy home! I don't see a white boy! I see a damn fool!"

²Thank you, Adventures In Babysitting. I know they are remaking you with Raven-Symoné, but you'll always star Elizabeth Shue in my world.

³You may think bashing Maverick's abundance of country music while quoting Eagles' songs makes me a somewhat of a hypocrite. You're wrong, but duly noted.

Lunchtime Discovery

In a little over a month, my co-workers and I will move from our current building. A new, shiny, and overcrowded building next to the Stadium construction site awaits. In preparation for the move, everyone has been instructed to throw out all non-essential items; old, unneeded papers and equipment have been tossed into the trash for weeks. Even the hallway bulletin board is being cleared; the once colorful array of flyers, retirement notices, and inane carpool invites has been reduced to only a few items -- some of which have been buried a long, long time:

Some Good News This Morning

From Yahoo's front page this morning:

Why? Why? I'll tell you why: because there is a God. A chocolate loving God. Read the story here.

We All Know Who Would Do It

There are things and times you don't miss until they are happening, usually because you're taking life way too seriously. That's been a problem for me lately, so Saturday afternoon I sauntered up to Paul's car at the Greenbelt Metro in the least serious way possible(short of hopping and skipping).

I brought Weird Al's "Straight Outta Lynwood" because I thought Paul would find it funny, but we talked and caught up over all the best parts. That bothered me a little. I wanted him to marvel at how funny it was, because I'm vain; it was a very foolish whim in retrospect. But I'm a fool at heart.

If there is one person in the world everyone should talk to, it's Paul; I always have animated, hilarious conversations with him. Whatever talking to Dick Cheney is like, talking with Paul would be the complete opposite. Paul and I get into trouble when talking in cars, though, and it's all the fault of The Simpsons. Once, The Simpsons made us two hours late; today, the pop-culture heavyweight nearly got us killed¹.

Nine years ago, Paul was driving me and our friend Aaron to visit another friend at Washington College, which is in Maryland's Eastern Shore. It was freshman year for all four of us(Paul, me, Aaron, mutual friend attending college in the vast marshes of the Eastern Shore; yep, that's four), so this was our first visit to WC. Jamie -- the mutual friend -- had given us good directions, which we ignored while we traded Simpsons' quotes for hours and hours after crossing the Chesapeake Bay. We ended up some absurd distance(that increases with each retelling of this story) past our exit, and we've joked since then that we are forbidden to discuss the show while Paul is driving(or while Aaron is sleeping).

Today, ignoring our past experience, we traded Simpsons' lines for a mere thirty seconds before Paul almost slammed into the back of a car stopped at a red light.

"Paul, you're gonna hit that guy," I mumbled.

After coming to a screeching halt behind the oblivious near-accident-victim, Paul gave me a thoughtful look.

"I'm surprised how calmly you told me I was about to kill us, 'Paul, you're gonna hit that guy...just, putting that out there...'," he said.

I replied I was frozen with fear and it happened too fast. In reality, I was eerily calm because of all my friends, if you -- Paul -- end up getting me killed, I will be very surprised.

¹Paul disputes that this was the fault of The Simpsons. He says he was distracted because he was pointing out the dental office of a friend. Paul, I know quoting The Simpsons is fun, but we can get our fix in non-vehicular settings. We shouldn't even do that shit on the Metro; we would kill dozens of people.