Late Arrival

Arriving in New York late last night, I noticed how long the tunnel from the Port Authority to the seven train is. Completely devoid of people, the lines of the floor tiles stretch out towards infinity, scaling the people at the far end into specks. The next morning, throngs of commuters will crowd around on all sides, making the tunnel just more walking on the way to work. Late at night, though, it can breathe.

The cackle of an annoyingly loud woman is more grating when you've been stuck in a Greyhound bus for four hours. Especially when you had to tell the guy next you, hey dude, I'm sure you've got a nice ass, but I still don't want half of it in my seat. The cavities that form in your head from lack of sleep fill up with her banal, stupid laughter. People shouldn't be this happy right before Monday.

Everything seems amplified, but in a bad way. An old woman singing for meal money on a mostly empty train is the most depressing thing in the world at two in the morning.

The one exception seems to be borderline women, who become more - not less - fuckable.

I need some sleep.

So Here We Are

I must have been pretty tired today, because I tried to use my apartment keys on the electronic badge reader at work. I was momentarily baffled when it didn't work.

Why am I tired? I just moved to Brooklyn. I spent the first few nights on an air mattress, waiting for my new bed to arrive. Yes, I did nothing but sit on an air mattress for days, patiently awaiting the delivery men from 1-800-WE-DELIVER-MATTRESSES-LATE-TO-FUCK-WITH-YOU. It wasn't all bad...that's really just a saying, because it was all bad. It was hot, sticky, and my shoulder still hurts like hell.

My new apartment is nice. I know this because both the late mattress delivery people and the two movers said so. Why would they lie? It does them no good to suck up to me, because I don't tip movers¹(or late mattress delivery people).

I have a roommate, who is extremely nice. She cooked me some BBQ chicken Sunday night when I got home from DC. Positively saintly.

I'm also newly single...and that's all I'll say about that. Other than it's frightening.

On a side note, I need to learn how to talk in some kind of European accent(maybe British or Irish) so I'll stop disappointing people. Maybe it's a New York thing.

¹I actually did tip the movers.

Courtesy Of The Make A Wish Foundation

I'm blatantly aping a great writer when I say, I am not qualified to live here.¹

Here not being the city of New York, but rather the Upper West Side, or UWS² for short. This is a place for blue-blooded WASPS, not a guy whose Prince George's County accent routinely comes up("I ain't got no cash, shiiit..."). The streets are lined with the upper-middle class, their stores, strollers and dogs. The nearest grocery store is more expensive than anywhere I shopped in DC, and I used to live near the Watergate Safeway. Sure, it carries frozen pizza, but only in personal size. It also carries brick oven frozen pizza, which defies explanation. The McDonald's downstairs delivers, and it has to, because no one who lives here goes in for anything other than a McFlurry, and those they eye with delight the way they might sample an exotic treat while on some far off safari sabbatical.

Finding myself here, I wonder; I ponder; I ask myself:...how did I get here?

Even at work, it seems, I find myself in another world. If I overheard a conversation at my old job, it was about babies, television, current events, and pop culture. Now, if I overhear a conversation, I don't know what it's about, because it's in French. Which is great, but still makes me feel like JoJo the idiot circus boy, who won a contest and gets to work at an ad agency and shack up in Miff and Buffy's neighborhood.

¹Chuck Kolsterman.

²I only know this because my GF pointed it out when Craigslist apartment ads began to confuse me.

I Wish Mr. Brooks Would Visit Mr. Happy Fun

That was a two day weekend, right? It felt like three. Come Sunday, it felt like I had been away from work for a long time. I guess that means I had a good weekend. It didn't start out good, it started out with over-priced, over-cooked fillet mignon.

My girlfriend and I had dinner in Little Italy Friday night. We stopped at the first place that served bread and appeared air conditioned. After being seated, the waiter asked us if we needed to see the wine list. I said no, since I wasn't in the mood and my girlfriend doesn't drink...usually. Looking down at the menu, I didn't see his reaction, but my girlfriend said he seemed pissed. Great, it's going to be one of those nights, I thought.

Don't get me wrong, I mean, I get it. Wine, appetizers - they all add up, which to a waiter usually means a bigger tip. Don't be visibly pissed though. It's not my duty to order over-priced wine. Okay, mister waiter? No hard feelings, right?

So, naturally, we received no bread. Other tables, that were seated after us? Oh they got bread. I, however, had to ask for it. So that's how it is, mister waiter? Mister happy fun? Got it.

My fillet mignon -- which I had never actually had before, I just enjoyed saying fillet mignon -- was decent. I may be a complete philistine, but I prefer steaks at Outback to what this restaurant was serving. And whoever fixed my girlfriend's spaghettia alla carbonara went nuts with the garlic and salt, pushing the limits of edible. We will not be going back there, despite the ringing endorsement from Time Out, circa 1999, quoted on their website.

After having missed one showing of "Mr. Brooks" downtown, we opted for a late showing at the 86th street Loews. The show was at 12:15, and they let us in the theater at...12:15. We waited in a, albeit short, line for about a half hour. For the first twenty minutes of that wait, the line was three people deep: me, my girlfriend, and a baseball-cap wearing, sweaty loner. "Mr. Brooks" was surprisingly good; Costner and Hurt had moments together that were very creepy. They should patent that joint laughter act and go on the road, creeping people out. Dane Cook was serviceable, and Demi Moore can now say she owns the most realistic portrayal of a millionaire cop ever filmed. Wil Smith in Bad Boys has nothing on her. So, a good ending that salvaged an otherwise horrible Friday night.

Saturday, things were much better. We went to Ooki, a Sushi/Japanese restaurant on the Upper East Side. Easily the best Japanese place I've been to in New York. The service was friendly and quick. The atmosphere was chill; the open-air dining room felt fantastic on a warm summer night. The drinks, especially the plum wine, were delicious. Ooki earns special praise for pacing the salads, appetizers, and entrees so we never felt rushed or neglected. The duck spring rolls, the shrimp tempura, and the best chicken teriyaki I've ever had make Ooki my new favorite dining spot. My girlfriend, not one to hand out praise, said the sushi was the best she'd ever had.

We went to see "Knocked Up", which -- thought not has laugh out loud hilarious as "The 40 Year-Old Virgin" -- was still hilarious and heartfelt. If you haven't seen it yet, well, too bad. People applauded at the end of the film, though these days I find that happening a lot more than I remember it. I mean, people applauded at the end of the third Pirates movie as well. And while, yes, I can appreciate some of the non-blockbuster sequences Verbinski sneaked into the movie -- the sand crabs, multiple Jack Sparrows were very surreal and effective -- I don't think the overloaded, under-plotted film deserved applause. A thoughtful "hmmm"? Sure.

Sunday was spent moving the rest of my stuff over to my new apartment, shopping, and then finally, relaxing.

Which is good, because it looks to be a long week.

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.

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.

Surprise Sunday Snow

I wake up Sunday, and what do I see. Snow. All over the place.



I thought we were done with snow this year. Wasn't it just a week or so ago temperatures were climbing to almost sixty degrees? I go to New York, it's freezing, come back to DC, it's warm. I figured that meant an early Spring and no more snow for us. Nope. Can't pack away the scarves and gloves yet.

At least this time it wasn't around long, and it didn't bring bitterly freezing air with it. One day it's a winter wonderland, the next day most of it's melted away. A one day decoration, the way it should be.

A Power Trio

I'm not going to lie. My room almost froze Sunday night, what with losing power sometime around one in the morning(I gathered from the difference between the blinking alarm clock and my cellphone). The low that night was 11 degrees, the temperature in my room didn't feel any warmer Monday morning. I'm still sick and cold. The situation is dire and bleak. But I have a plan.

And now, I shall unveil it(with some help from my family for picking up some heavy duty extensions cords).

My Power Trio:

Heater One.

Heater Two.

Heater Three.

Between these three machines, I can sleep somewhat warmly. According to the digital readouts of Heater One and Heater Two, it's about 60 degrees now.

In a weird twist of fate, the next installment in my series of 2006 hidden musical gems is Mastodon's Blood Mountain, and I originally wrote this while freezing(as noted in the text). So, enjoy!

Artist: Mastodon
Album Title: Blood Mountain
Record Label: Reprise/Relapse
Release Date: 9.12.2006
Rating: 8.7
Bands Web Site: http://www.mastodonrocks.com/main.html
Sound: Heavy Metal, Alternative Metal
Similar Artists: Killswitch Engage, Iron Maiden, Tool

Something is going to leap out of my closet, I thought. Something is going to leap out of my dark, cold closet - a giant wolf, like the one from The Never Ending Story - and tear my throat out...and it will fucking rock. Listening to Mastodon's Blood Mountain in my unheated, cold dark apartment, these were the kind of thoughts I was having. Maybe it was a mild hypothermia induced delirium, or maybe it was just how immersing Mastodon's brand of heavy metal can be.

Blood Mountain is a concept album based around the trek up, well, a mountain, and all the scary shit you would endure and encounter. Upon first listening to the record, this might be hard to pick up. Bassist Troy Sanders' vocals are not the easiest to understand, especially when they wander too far into cliched "Cookie Monster" territory(Sanders actually sings on most tracks, though).

A feeling of eminent doom is layered throughout songs like "The Wolf Is Loose", "Sleeping Giant", and "Circle of Cysquatch". A Cysquatch, incidentally and for the curious, is "a one-eyed Sasquatch that can see into the future", according to Sanders. You know, kind of like the cyclops from Krull, only with lots more hair and a bad-ass soundtrack. One thing I love about bands like Mastodon; they take shit like this very seriously. Another thing I love about bands like Mastodon is they really, really play the hell out of their instruments. Not many bands can stand up to Mastodon's technical skill, from Brent Hinds and Bill Kelliher's shredding guitars to Brann Dailor's mind-blowing drumming. They aren't afraid of diversifying their sound either, ranging from the blazing, Iron Maiden sounding epics to the eerie, melody driven songs featuring rich vocal harmonies, echoing Alice N Chains.

Even with my heat out, I was managing with a space heater. While I was listening to "Bladecatcher", though, the space heater shorted out the electricity to my room, right at the part when the song went over the edge with an assault of bizarre sharp sounding "vocals"(or at least I assumed it was the heater, maybe the fuse box just couldn't take one of Mastodon's more extreme tracks). Actually, the problem wasn't with the fuse so I listened to the rest of the album on my iPod, and as Mastodon blasted very epic, immense, unforgiving music it fit perfectly with the bleak white walls of my room, barely lit by the dim light of an overcast winter's day. I didn't know perfect music to freeze to death in your apartment existed, outside of whatever the hell was on the St. Elmo's Fire soundtrack.

Blood Mountain is a superbly constructed album. No song feels out of place, and the record not only holds up to repeated listens but actually makes you want to peel back it's dark, snowy layers. For their first record on new label Reprise, Mastodon hasn't dumbed anything down, in fact, this might be their best work

It's Colllld Outside!!! What Is This, Miami Beach?

While I was in NYC, my landlord had the "heat guy" over Sunday to figure out why my room was freezing. Turns out, the track of baseboard heating in my room is broken. And, best of all, it would require major work to finish. Clear out your room, be gone for a few days, "heat guy" becomes "contractor heat guy" type work.

So...I'm pretty much screwed. My space heater works, but I have to run it from the bathroom because it shorts out the bedroom circuit. That limits it's placements, and it has a hard time heating a ten square feet, let alone the room.

So...a discounted rent, and reimbursement for the space heater. What else can I do?

At least the neighborhood Giant can cheer me up. They brought CDs back a few weeks ago, but they were all lame greatest hits CDs. Yesterday, though, something peculiar jumped out from the cardboard rack at me...



Is that...a fat naked man?



Yes. Yes it is. Among the silver and golden Best Of discs, the unmistakable sight of The Bloodhound Gang's Hefty Fine. How the hell did that get there?

New Year, New Roommate

My current roommate is moving to Virginia; her last day in lovely Columbia Heights will be Monday. She has been a great roommate, largely because she was gone for long stretches of time(weeks, not days). Really, all you need out of a roommate is someone who is quiet and doesn't hog the TV and leaves you lots of space on the couch. When your roommate is always backpacking in Guatemala or scuba-diving in the Caribbean(this is part of her job that she - gasp - loves), that's a lot of space to stretch out and enjoy the 6:30 Simpsons.

When she was here, we got along fine; even when she left the door unlocked, or open, or locked me out with the deadbolt she warned me about not locking when I moved in. She would also go to sleep with a lit candle on the window sill above the oven(which was still on). Still, a lovable woman. I'm sure I did my share of dumb and dirty(I am a boy) things, though none of them would have burned down the house.

My landlord found a new roommate for me; I met they guy, he seems decent enough. A little older than me, Mediterranean looking. I'm pretty laid back when it comes to living arrangements, which can baffle some people. As long as my roommate is relatively clean and respects my privacy, I'm cool with whoever. If my landlord is going to write an ad and do all the legwork, why get my nose in it? Everyone is going to be run by me anyway.

I'm going to have to acquire some furniture though. It was fun moving into a new apartment with all new(to me) and strange things, but they are all packed or already on their way to Virginia. Good excuse to buy a new TV I guess. And a Wii to go with it! And an Apple TV! And...and...you know, one of my New Year's resolutions was to save more money, and Nintendo and Apple are making that much harder. Time to creatively budget, which usually involves ludicrous statements like "If I just stop eating solid food for a month, this can so work!". So, I guess I'll just wait on a lot of things.

Anyway, I've been toying with the idea of doing rundown of my favorite posts of 2006, but since I only blogged for about a quarter of the year(68 posts worth, though), seems a little inane. Besides, it's getting to be mid-January, the time for 2006 lists has long passed. Right? What do you think?

Mid-January also means the time for Christmas music has passed. As a rule, I don't rate my Christmas music in iTunes. This way, it doesn't show up in my smart playlists; I only hear Christmas music when I want to. Interestingly, though, I have one exception to this rule: "White Christmas" by the Clyde McPhatter edition of The Drifters. I don't know exactly what it is about that song that sets it apart from all other Christmas music, but I never mind hearing it, no matter what time of year it is. The original, pre-Ben E. King Drifters could really sing together.

Anyway, 2007 should be an exciting year. New roommate and all.

Available At Metro Center

My girlfriend has a brand new kind of Metro card. I call it the "Hi, I'm Pretty!" card.

You see, when my girlfriend arrived from New York last Wednesday she bought a seven day pass at the Union Station Metro stop(cost: $32). It stopped working the next day. While I stood holding the things she needed for the day at my parents, my girlfriend asked the station manager at Greenbelt why her pass stopped working. Turns out, the station manager explained, that the pass was de-magnetized. Probably by a cellphone, she said. No problem, the station manager just circled the date on the card with her pen and told my girlfriend to just tell every station manager what had happened. For the next seven days.

So up until yesterday, my girlfriend has had to show every station manager her metro card, complete with pen-circled date and say "Hi...my card was de-magnetized." And it worked. No one questioned it. Apparently, circling things with a blue pen is some kind of secret station manager code.

Of course, when the station manager was a man my girlfriend could have said anything. In fact, I'm sure everything she said was translated through that little booth's intercom and came out as "Hi, I'm pretty! Let me through!".

Every male station manager flirted with her, unaware I was waiting for her on the other side of the gate. One particularly adventurous Columbia Heights manager asked her, on Christmas Eve, if she was his present. What could he do to make her his present? I didn't hear any of this at the time.

If I was smart, I would have stayed with her instead of going through the gate first every time, sparing her the ordeal. I'm not that smart, though. Plus, it was somewhat enjoyable to see the dismayed looks on the station manager's faces when she took my hand as we exited the station.

One manager did see me first, however, and asked my girlfriend if I was a) her best friend, b) her brother(I'm white, she's black, so he was assuming my girlfriend is mixed, which she isn't) or c) her half-brother. He simply didn't want to believe, my girlfriend said, that we were together. Such are Christmas hopes, and how easily they are dashed.

So, I'm sorry Metro Station managers, but she's taken. And yes, she is taken by the whitest looking white man on earth.

Friday Announcement

I have a huge announcement. Yesterday, I was folding laundry at my apartment when I realized something profound: I finally have enough underwear.

I am a clothes-challenged person, especially when it comes to the unglamorous members of the dresser; socks, undershirts, underwear, etc. I never have enough to get through a week, and I find myself either wearing some unsavory items or doing multiple loads of laundry every week. Yesterday, though, I finally won. I have so much underwear, even when I do a weekly load of laundry there are at least four or five pairs that haven't even been used yet.

Next on the agenda, socks and undershirts(socks are pretty close, actually).

My issues with clothes can leave me in some nasty little binds in the winter. I always forget to buy gloves, scarfs, hats, etc. Since I've moved at least once every year for about the last four years(sometimes twice a year...wow, I didn't realize it was that much until I thought about it), I always seem to lose track of whatever winter accessories I had the year before.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago when it was really really cold, I had to go out grocery shopping. It was around seven or so on a weeknight, and I was completely out of, well, everything. I knew from my walk home, with only my winter coat, that it would not be a pleasant walk. Especially since I had already changed out of my dress shirt and tie(the idea of putting on a dress-shirt and tie just to simulate a scarf occurred to me, but I decided that was too pathetic...of course, what I did next calls my sanity into question regarding that).

I needed a scarf if I was going to bear the walk, and I remembered I had an old H&M sweater that I was no longer wearing because(being over a year old and from H&M) it was developing holes all over. So, I took out my scissors and went at that sweater, and lo and behold:




I am the scarf NINJA. It was warm, and it looked...like a scarf. Yeah, you wish you'd thought of it.

It's Cold

The heat stopped working again this week. Guy is coming this weekend(!) to work on it. I'm huddled in a blanket, wearing my jacket, using my MacBook in my lap for warmth. My girlfriend just told me I could be sick forever...I'm pretty sure she was kidding.

The space heater a co-worker(thanks Brian!) gave me works though; I just have to plug it in through the bathroom so it doesn't short out the bedroom's power.

My landlord is playing techno-infused rave music upstairs now.

Welcome. Welcome, to my cold dark hell.

No Power Monday

I lost power in my room this morning. This is the second time in as many weeks this has happened, and I was doing the exact same thing both times: ironing pants. I'm pretty sure my iron is just a normal iron, but apparently it's putting incredible strain on my apartment's wiring.

After ironing my pants in the hallway(the roommate had already left), I set out relatively wrinkle-free into the cold. The rest of the morning routine went largely without incident. However, I did see something rather strange.

Walking to the Metro, I saw a young girl walking to school and eating an ice cream bar. Now, this girl is either a genius or just insane in the way kids often are.

Think about it. It's freezing, so she is guaranteed to be able to enjoy her frozen treat during her entire walk. No melty mess to explain; no damning evidence of eating an unbalanced breakfast. Then again, she is eating ice cream on a day when it's 32 degrees and feels like 22.

Work is getting stressful. I have tasks piling up on top of each other, like so many things that pile and stack. I'll probably stay late a couple of days(at least) to try and get some extra work done and keep the customers happy.

Other than that, life is good. This morning I had another great iPod moment: glancing over someone's shoulder at the Express headlines, I noticed one about the Iraqi Civil War just as "WAR! GOOD GOD YA'LL!!" rings in my ears. Made me forget all about having no power at home.

Greatest iPod Moment EVER

AC/DC's "Back In Black" comes on, just as a large gentleman wearing a black hoodie, pants, and an AC/DC hat sat down across from me on the Metro. The only way it could have been better is if he was black, which he was.

Avec une araignée

Ah, the morning shower. I like to run the hot water for a bit before I get in, brushing my teeth and letting some steam build up. That's my perfect morning shower: hot water, steam, and a spider.

Right. By. My. Head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something dangling at eye level. For less than a split second, I thought I was losing my hair(the spider was dark brown, which is what dead, wet falling out blond hair would look like I guess). Then it wrangled it's legs around it's little spider sling and paused right in front of my face as if to say, "Hey, how's it going. Nice shower this morning. Whoa, calm down fella...what are you doing with that tissue paper?...you know what, I'll just be going."

It climbed back up to the ceiling, where I killed it. Sorry, it was a primitive reaction. I flushed it and still had the willies all morning.

It's a mad world.

I'm going to the Redskins game Sunday; my first at FedEx, and the first since 1987. The only thing I remember about that game was my father seemed to be some sort of giant among men(I was eight). I'm going with him again, two of my three brothers are going but they will be seated elsewhere.

Again, congrats to my friend Jamie and his new job, hope the first day is going well.

You Tried, Cockblocking Greenline

Boy, did you ever try Greenline. I applaud your efforts to keep me from having sex Saturday night.

If there is anything Casino Royale should have been good for, it's being the kind of movie to get men and women in the mood. Scary movies are good for that too, but Bond movies have exotic locales and eye candy for every sex and taste(The movie was very good even if you don't count it's potential to facilitate fucking, incidentally).

Exiting the Regal theater that night, all seemed to be going well. Kisses before, during, and after the movie. Light touches, heavy touches, and just the right amount of anticipation. Then you stepped in.

The wait at the Chinatown stop for a train going back to Columbia Heights was 17 minutes due to track work. A long time to wait. Now, I'm not saying I can't keep anticipation building for seventeen plus minutes - I'm not a teenager anymore - but this was compounded by the fact that we had seen a late show, and some dreaded yawns were slowly escaping both of our mouths. Plus, she hates waiting any longer than eight minutes for a train(that's the New Yorker in her). Fatigue and irritation, twin mood killers staring me right in the face.

I persevered though. Tender embraces on a stone Metro bench; kisses on the forehead. Chemistry that comes from great physical and mental compatibility is a powerful ally. You weren't finished, though, where you? You played your strongest card, Greenline.

Vomit.

I can play around a lot of things to preserve the mood, but a drunk man puking in the phone booth - right in front of us - is not one of them. There isn't much romantic about vomit, or slurred words of apology to no one in particular. You weren't finished with that, though, were you Greenline?

A bar playa sat his very drunk conquest right next to us, and her odor finished off any thoughts we had other than for the love of God please let the next train be ours, before we start running down the tunnel just to escape the smell of puke and bile!

Finally, our salvation arrived, and I'll bet you thought your work was done, didn't you Greenline? I'll grant you, sex was the last thing on either of our minds as we finally exited Columbia Heights and made the cold walk back to my apartment. But that's what John Legend, Al Green, Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye are for. That's what a warm bed and a back massage are for. You failed that night, Greenline, and I succeeded.

The next morning too.

Horror Of Horrors

I walk ten minutes in the cold to see this:



I just want some hot chocolate! Get some hamsters in a wheel or something! Pedal a bicycle! I'll do it; I didn't walk here for nothing!

Oh well. There's always tomorrow for Starbucks.

There better be.

Giant Lobsters and CDs

One of my favorite things to do at the Giant(a north-eastern supermarket chain) is a thing of the past.

No, it's not staring at the lobster tank(that was fun when I was a kid though...OK, fine, it's still fun now but the Giant near my apartment doesn't even have a lobster tank...no really...OK, I still like to stare at the lobsters).

What I am going to miss is the gloriously messy giant Giant CD display. Every week, I stop by - often letting my frozen wares get dangerously close to thawing - and go through a huge pile of CDs, all piled and thrown about on a little table near the magazines and greeting cards. The chaos of the pile dares me to try and find a hidden gem. It's my poor man's version of record hunting. Or it was.

I did find a few albums for myself deep beyond the first layer of Jessica Simpson, Toby Keith, Avril Lavigne, and For Her collections: Black Sabbath's Greatest Hits for $3, Josh Stone's The Soul Sessions for $8, The Ramones Greatest Hits for $6, and Gordon Lightfoot's Summertime Dream for $9.

Last week, I was surprised to see Corb Lund's Hair In My Eyes Like A Highland Steer near the bottom of the corner nearest the bagged candy(I noted this for future reference). Canadian country just isn't a genre I thought a supermarket would carry. I have the song "All I Wanna Do Is Play Cards" off it, and I really liked that so I thought about picking it up. Next week, I told myself. I'll get it next week.

It's next week, and all the CDs are gone. The table has neon picture frames and other assorted nick knacks on it now(at least I think it does, I was too upset to take a really close look at it).

No more CD hunting to liven up the grocery shopping. Oh well, there's always the lobsters.

No Longer Four-Eyed

I finally picked up my contacts yesterday; a month and a half of glasses in enough for me, and everyone else for that matter.

I relapsed into being four-eyed again pretty easily. 17 years of wearing glasses should make that transition smooth, I guess. My switch to contacts was one shot in a rapid-fire self-improvement spree five years ago(that also included a new haircut, running shoes, and what is possibly the deadliest of all sins - online dating).

Anyway, it's good to be wearing contacts again; I'd forgotten what my unobstructed face looked like. Although my friends will contend otherwise(because they are good friends), I do look better without glasses. At least I get laid more( I realize this may be the result of my improved self-confidence from thinking I look better, but more women approach me sans-glasses than with).

I get my contacts from a trendy place in DC, Blink Optical. Outside it's pretty unassuming. Inside, the place looks like a swank lounge or club; it even has the euro-electronic muzak to go with it's stripped-down urban-industrial chic look(see, I can make up bullshit just as well as any club promoter). Hell, even the staff look like international scene regulars. Throughout the store, slumped and stacked behind the register and perched in designer chairs, Blink is sure to be employing an array of people who are at least three of these five things: a) urban hipster, b) thin, c) tall, d)European, and e) attractively androgynous.

What Blink really is, I realized, is the parallel dimension version of a trendy lounge - the version from the good dimension. It's only open during the day, all the pretty people are courteous and warm, there are no drugs(unless you count the wine - I shit you not - they serve while you wait or browse), and I can see more than three fucking feet in front of me. Euro-electronic muzak must be a multidimensional constant, however.

One thing I didn't count on, now that I have my contacts, is how it would affect my running. I developed the habit of taking my glasses off when I ran at the gym, to blind myself to the numerous gym distractions: TVs tuned to MTV¹ and VH1, group aerobics classes, inappropriate spandex displays, etc. That, and I grew tired of pushing my glasses up Kent style every thirty seconds or so.

Having all those distractions filtered out really helped my focus. Nothing existed outside of step, push, stride, breathe, plant, repeat. My times improved steadily during my six weeks of wearing glasses.

Today, I'm running and I have to work to focus. I can see everything very clearly, but I refuse to take my contacts out in the gym locker room. They go in after I wake up, and go out before I go to bed. Anything else just complicates the entire process and throws the universe into chaos. So to focus, I picked a treadmill from the line of machines that had a clear line of sight to a glass door - giving me a phantom me to stare down while I psych myself up to set a new best time.

One last hazard of this switch: I keep trying to adjust glasses that aren't there, making me look insane in public.

¹I don't know what tripping on LSD or mushrooms is like, but I imagine the disorienting effect is something like watching MTV muted and without context - utter nonsensical imagery full of big, bright colors and quick cuts.