Across The River

Man in worn suit

2011-06-05T23:34:00.000-04:00

Man in worn suit, where do you go? The day is too sweltering to be walking far. You trudge forward slowly, with shoulders hunched forward. I notice a look of sadness and weariness on your face.

Hang in there stranger. The days will not always be this hot. The world will not always turn its back on you. Man in worn suit, walk proud.

I shall not jubilate

2011-05-03T21:23:00.000-04:00

These kids.
They just don't understand.
That this was more than history.
This was fear.
This was anger.
This was confusion.
That 9/11's enduring legacy
Was to beget more violence.
What's done was necessary
But I cannot celebrate.
I can only mourn.

Falling is just floating at 125 mph

2011-04-12T22:41:00.001-04:00

You cannot talk. You cannot hear anything but the rushing of a wind that does not cease. The lips of your mouth are peeled back to your ears. Your eyelids are glued to your forehead. The adrenaline courses through your entire body as you concentrate on keeping your hands and legs bent. They call it "good form."

You glimpse your altimeter ticking down, and pull the ripcord. Your body jerks from a horizontal position to a vertical one and all of you just stops. As you struggle to orient yourself, you realize your chute has deployed, and all the fear, all the adrenaline, all the caffeine your drank that morning comes rushing out of you in one big Indian war whoop. WHAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, you yell.

The shortest part of your journey is done. Now you have a 10 minute ride to the ground. Like a tourist you eagerly look around and snap mental pictures of the sites. A river snaking its way through green trees that look like blades of grass. A city on the horizon. Multicolored chutes from earlier jumpers. As you near the landing zone you realize that the ground is approaching fast. Anxious to avoid any broken bones, you wait till the last second, pull on the harnesses of your parachute and lift your feet up. You slide in for a landing, and the parachute covers you like a blanket.

You will not be able to stop smiling for days. You will try to describe the experience to others. In the end, you will just settle on the term "floating." It doesn't make any sense, but somehow at 1400 feet you felt at peace. Like you were floating amidst the clouds.

I have an active imagination

2011-02-17T18:50:00.000-05:00

I was walking down a dimly lit trail this evening. In front of me I noticed some dark shapes that seemed to resemble humans.Which way are they going?, I wondered. I was too far away to make much out.

As I got closer I realized they were coming towards me.

I could vaguely make out two human shapes now, and what appeared to be a dog.

As I got closer, one of the human shaped objects swerved erratically along the pavement.

Hmm, maybe one human, and two dogs? One that's rather large.

As I got closer, the "dog" flapped it's huge ears.

Oh dear god I thought. What sort of monster on is ahead of me? A mini elephant? A giant bat?

As I got closer the child took his arms out of his jacket. He had been using his jacket like a cape. I walked around the mother, child and dog and silently chastised myself.

I walked in the door and immediately went for the bottle

2010-11-07T10:19:00.000-05:00

It was sitting on the kitchen counter. I poured the rest of its contents into one of the glasses, sat down on my couch, flipped on the TV, and smiled.

It had been a good night and I was in the mood for a nightcap of surprisingly delicious Spanish white wine.

I examined my right hand. Earlier in the evening I had cut my thumb and index finger. The blood wouldn't stop oozing and I began to worry that I'd be spending the evening at the ER instead of with her. She calmly grabbed gauze and bandaids from her purse and then helped me wrap my fingers in toilet paper. A minute later the bleeding stop. We finished cooking dinner, crisis averted.

I got up from the couch and grabbed a cupcake from the fridge. She'd baked them earlier in the day and had left me with a container full. She texted me a few minutes later. I expected this-she'd done so after our last two dates.

I told her I liked her a lot. She said the same thing. We said goodnight. I finished the last gulp of wine, curled up on my couch and drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face.

Carnival

2010-10-03T21:54:00.001-04:00

I was feeling flaccid. No energy, no motivation. My Saturday of shopping was thrown completely out the window. I sat around my apartment completely apathetic to the world. I didn't even have the motivation to return a text from a friend about an Oktoberfest celebration taking place locally. When I did call him I was surprised to hear that it continued into the evening.

When we got their we were greeted with a carnival-like atmosphere. Spinning ferris wheels, rows of games, vendors hawking fried foods of all varieties, and of course beer. I felt my apathy melt away. Reserved Matt became Kid Matt. I giddily skipped across the grounds to where one of my friends stood. My energy surprised him. "I thought you were going to jump into my arms and I was going to have to catch you" he exclaimed. Ha, I laughed.

We quickly sought out the indulgences that are so important at a carnival. We sampled the cuisine-funnel cakes, starchy pretzels, cinnamon roasted pecans and of course sweet Oktoberfest beer. We played the games and acted like we had hit the jackpot when we won prizes of goldfish and stuffed animals. Some of us road the rides.

There was laughter. There was chicken dancing. There were posed pictures with the stuffed animals. As midnight rolled around the Oompah band finished up its last song and my friends and I began walking back to the cars. The top of my shirt had a thin layer of powdered sugar on it and my mouth tasted like cinnamon. In the car ride back I dozed, gripping a beer stein firmly with my right hand. I know that you can't ever go back and become a kid again. Their will be parts of your adult life that are always there, mixing with your kid joys. But sometimes the remixes are a hell of a lot of fun.

The Fighter

2010-09-23T10:42:00.000-04:00

I am the fighter
Anger building up inside me
I throw punches wildly
At any and everything
Haymakers that hit nothing
I am left exhausted
Frustrated
And wondering
Why my punches don't land
Why those that do are
At things that mean nothing
The prize is still out there
The knockout is still to come
Focus and it will be mine
Firm up my stance
Jab carefully
Punch relentlessly
Hit the targets that matter
Never give up
Because I am the fighter

I run

2010-09-19T21:56:00.001-04:00

I run in the hot night
So much on my mind
But this clears it
My ankles ache
My legs are sore
The night is hot
But I run
I need the comforting shoulder of a friend
But this will do
This will focus me
I will manage
I will run

Fall

2010-09-05T13:21:00.000-04:00

Ever since I graduated, summer has not held that same revered place in my heart that it did when I was a kid. When you're a kid summer=no school, so it's the favored of all the seasons. When school is out of the equation and you work a job year round, you begin to rank your seasons based on other factors.

I realized early on in my adult life that I loved the fall. It's a combination of the temperature getting cooler, the leaves changing, football season, and Thanksgiving (which has become my favorite holiday). Normally fall can't get here soon enough. D.C. summers do not agree with me, and I probably loose 10 pounds just in sweat.

This year I have wanted to hold on to summer. Which is weird, because it's been a pretty up and down time for me. I think I've wanted to hold on to it because I don't want time to move forward. In fact I've wanted time to move backward quite a few times. One of my new, pointless fears is of getting older and not having anything to show for it. The fact that an entire season has passed so quickly scares me, and makes me worry that before I know it next summer will be here in a blink of an eye and I'll be wondering what happened to it.

I also think that despite of myself, that I've really enjoyed this summer. Technically beginning in the spring, I've gone on a number of trips, both short and long. I've discovered things about myself. While feeling like I was living a life-in-limbo, I somehow managed to do a bunch of fun things. And I don't really know what the fall holds.

I walked outside yesterday. I was greeted by a cool breeze and a fresh smell. Ahh, it feels like fall I thought. And most of my fears evaporated. I don't know what the fall holds. I don't have a clue what I'm doing sometimes. But all I can continue doing is trying to live life and improve myself. If I think about the big picture I'll get overwhelmed, but if I focus on the little moments of life and try to enjoy those I think I'll be ok.

I'll enjoy it like years past. I'll take it one day at a time. I'll live fall.

I just hung up the phone.

2010-09-01T21:31:00.000-04:00

I just hung up the phone.

I had called my friend to see how he and his pregnant wife were doing. He surprised me by telling me that they were actually inducing tomorrow and that the baby would likely be born Friday.

As we ended the call, a realization dawned on me.

Next time I speak with you, you'll be a father I told him.

Yeah, he said with a mixture of happiness and apprehension.

He's the first of my friends to have a child.

This day seemed so far off when he told me 9 months ago. I still can't believe that most of my friends are married. Their weddings seem like just yesterday. And now they're having kids.

I just hung up the phone and I realize how quickly life moves.

I'm so happy for him. Yet I'm scared too. (An odd emotion considering I'm not the one having the kid.) Life moves too quickly. I have to figure out how to enjoy the stages before they disappear. Before my friends move on.

I know I will. Good friends don't ditch you when they get married. They don't forget about you when they have kids. Things just change. And I think I'm getting used to that.

I just hung up the phone and I'm just happy to have friends who's joys I can share in.

Why I don't believe in Ghosts

2010-08-31T00:07:00.000-04:00

I don't believe in ghosts I tell people. And for one simple, logical reason.

When I was five my family moved to Richmond. My parents had a house built a ways away in the county. You had to go 5 minutes down the road to reach a four way intersection with a stop sign.

And I lived their comfortably for most of my childhood until I graduated from college and eventually found a job in the D.C. area.

I believe I was still in college when my parents told me a story. An old, unclaimed graveyard discovered while the property was being developed. An undertaker discretely dispatched to the property to remove the remains.

And my parents never said a word to either me or my sister until we were old enough to not be seriously creeped out.

Think about this. Let this sink in. I lived in a house built over top a graveyard. Perhaps my bedroom was over the hollowed ground that once housed remains.

If their are ghosts, they would have haunted the fuck out of me and my family. Seriously, they would have seriously fucked us up. Televisions turning on for no reason. Objects flying through the air. Marks appearing on our bodies while we slept. If their is any reason to haunt the living shit out of a family its when they build a fucking house over top your place of rest.

So that's why I don't believe in ghosts.

Like Butterflies Amidst the Bright Lights

2010-08-17T19:30:00.002-04:00

The moths look like butterflies
Amidst the bright lights
The massive crowds awe me
The green field makes me smile with its plushness
So many things to appreciate

When I remember
Will I look back
With regret?
Nostalgia?
Longing?
To take it all in
I must gaze all around
I must close my eyes
I must inhale

My friend
You have been there for me
And we have shared great times
Which is why I gladly share this moment with you
I look around and smile
And the moths look like butterflies
Amidst the bright lights

Elusive feelings

2010-08-11T21:39:00.000-04:00

I went out to dinner and drinks with some friends last night. And I realized about midway through that I had completely forgotten about the parts of life that were stressing me out. And even the realization that I had forgotten about those things (and therefore was remembering those things) didn't bother me one bit. I was in a carefree zone. A zone I don't get to that much.

I have a really fun weekend planned for this weekend. And I have another really fun weekend planned the next weekend. And then I go skydiving the next weekend. So why can't I bring myself to be happy more often? I try to make these things make me happy. I tell my self that I have a good life. That I have much to be happy about. So why can't I fucking feel it? You elude me.

The Shopping Cart: A Tale of Mystery and Suspense

2010-08-08T23:15:00.000-04:00

Amidst the old brick buildings and the acorn trees lies a shopping cart.

The cart showed up outside my Arlington apartment complex about a month ago. Over the next few weeks, no one laid claim to the cart. In fact, it stayed in almost the exact spot, straddling the asphalt parking lot and the stone walkway to the complex.

"Harmless enough," I thought. Possibly used by a homeless person to shuttle his/her belongings along, and then discarded when a better cargo carrying device was discovered? A college student who thought it would be funny to steal something? Someone who didn't want to carry their groceries, and figured they'd just "borrow" a shopping cart?

As I pulled in to my apartment complex this evening I noticed the familiar sight of the shopping cart. I parked my car in an open space by the large dumpster that's used by my complex, and began unpacking my weekend. A glint of metal and plastic caught my eye and I glanced over at the dumpster.

"What is this?," I thought. A closer examination revealed a shocking discovery.

TWO MORE SHOPPING CARTS.

You know when the small town sheriff arrives at the horrifying conclusion that all the dead bodies showing up recently aren't just random one time crimes?

"We have a serial killer on our hands!," says the sheriff to the awaiting media.

"We have a serial shopping cart stealer!," I said to no one in particular.

A feeling of revulsion followed by careful thought followed.

"Our shopping cart stealer has progressed," I reasoned. His first victim was left upright and standing. His second and third were maliciously discarded at the base of the dumpster. Ohh how casual our serial shopping cart stealer is with the carts he takes! Woah to the clerks and night managers at Safeway and Giant who will never see their precious shopping carts again. Woah to the shoppers as they carry their groceries by hand, instead of with the convenience of the cart.

Our shopping cart stealer has shown that he is not afraid to rack up a body count. When will the next cart appear? Only he knows.

Ten year reunion

2010-08-04T22:42:00.000-04:00

Ten years has given me lasting friendships that I count as my most valuable possessions. Ten years has given me a career that despite being difficult shows that I can rock with people. Ten years has given me confidence. Ten years has given me heartbreak. Ten years has been up and down.

A lot has changed in ten years. But sometimes I still feel like the shy, self conscious kid who kept his head down, tried to figure out where he fit in and just wanted high school to end. Have I changed? Have I changed enough? Was it me, or was it them?

I just hope that I can stay grounded with any memories or emotions that being around these people evokes. I hope that I'll run into at least one person who I can have a real conversation with. I hope I can keep my current life in perspective.

.......................................................................................

Why am I going? Because, honestly, what do I have to loose?

I'm about to go skydiving for a second time. I roll the dice, with death being a small but possible chance, and immense joy being the greater chance and reward.

With my reunion, the dice may be loaded, the odds may be against me, but what do I have to loose? One Saturday night spent in Richmond? Not the worst thing in the world.

Perspective man, perspective. More than optimism, more than a fake smile, more than dressy clothing, if I can keep things in perspective, I'll be golden.

Ambivalence and Contentment in Arlington

2010-08-01T15:23:00.000-04:00

Hunter S. Thompson wrote Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs and alcohol. I am writing this blog post under the influence of allergy medication and Diet Coke.

Thompson's cocktail made him write crazy pieces of prose. They blurred the line between fiction and reality. He took tripped out road trips, drank copious amounts of alcohol (while handling firearms) and founded Gonzo journalism.

My cocktail is making me sleepy and is dulling my mind. I will spend the rest of my afternoon watching episodes of the West Wing, reading, and putting together a DVD rack. Actually, I will tell myself that I will put together the DVD rack, but it will not actually happen. There-the lines between fiction and reality have been appropriately blurred.

That is all.

Bachelor Cooking with Matt

2010-07-29T22:44:00.000-04:00

It's time for another edition of Bachelor cooking. Well, another as in first edition of Bachelor cooking. Three years ago I attempted Salmon in a Pouch. Now I attempt something a bit more challenging...Chicken Parmesan.

Here's a recipe I pulled off of Cooks.com.

4-6 chicken breasts
Italian dressing for marinating chicken
2 cups bread crumbs
1/2 cup Parmesan
garlic powder
salt and pepper
mozzarella cheese
spaghetti sauce
oil with 3 tbls. butter

I will not be following this recipe.

First step. Locate leftover store bought precooked chicken breast. Marvel at how well the chicken was properly breaded by a worker on an assembly line.

Second step. Apply cheese. Hmm, I don't have mozzarella or Parmesan. A slice of Swiss will have to do.

It's time to prepare the next and some might say the most important ingredient, The Sauce. This will take some time to prepare properly.

Prepared. Carefully coat both chicken breasts. And now it's time to cook this sucker.

Ohh, fumble. Go back ten spaces. Do not pass Go, do not collect 200 dollars. Grab a sponge.

The final product.

Technique: 1/4 stars
Presentation: 1/4 stars
Resourcefulness: 3/4
Taste: 4/4 stars
Final grade: Only the last category matters in Bachelor Cooking...so 4 stars. Booyakasha! Well done.

This has been another edition of Bachelor Cooking with Matt. Next week, Matt prepares a wild mushroom risotto.

Grandmother

2010-07-12T00:14:00.000-04:00

My grandmother has always had health problems. Various conditions since she was a child. As she grows older, the conditions multiply. My grandfather is in perfect health, with a sharp mind to boot. Other family members always talk about how his father had lived to 100, and we fully expect him to do the same.

...

My grandfather had died suddenly. My family and I head to NC for the funeral. When we get to the church my grandmother declares that she wants her grandson to be the one to escort her into the service. I am 17 or 18 and I of course agree. We slowly walk out to the pew at the front of the church and sit down. My grandfather's coffin is in front of us. She is sad, but has a certain degree of composure, and strength. Strength that I don't expect to see in that old woman.

...

It is her 90th birthday celebration. Alzheimer's has stripped her of many of her memories, and she seems...old. Deep wrinkles, clothing slightly eschew, smeared lipstick. I have to leave the room, as tears come into my eyes. I compose myself, and we have a wonderful dinner and birthday celebration with her. She tells us stories multiple times, she misidentifies people, but...she smiles, she makes jokes, and she talks about wanting to do this again when she turns 100. I hand my camera to another family member, and ask them to take a photo of my grandmother and me. I am proud of her.

Feeling

2010-07-09T19:09:00.000-04:00

While talking with a friend last night, Walt Whitman came up.

And this got me thinking about poetry and life.

Sometimes, life can't be broken apart by science and engineering. Sometimes it's more poetry.

I think there are two types of people in this world. Those who want to know the ins and outs of everything, and those who are more interested in how it makes them feel.

For some people, the end is not what matters, it's the why. That the clock tells time isn't as important as what makes up that clock.

For me though, it's not the why, as much as it is the emotion behind things.

When you look at a sunset, do you think about the science behind it? Or do you let the sun's fading rays wash over you, and breath a sigh of relief that the day is done?

I don't think the world can be fit into neat little boxes or stanzas.

In Dead Poets Society, Mr. Keating told the students to tear out the pages that attempted to deconstruct poetry. And that's such a crucial scene.

Because poetry is about passion. Poetry is about emotion. Life is poetry.

And maybe we miss things when we try to deconstruct it.

Life is meant to be lived. Live is about the feeling.

Old/Young

2010-07-09T09:44:00.000-04:00

Your new haircut makes you look 17, said our accountant. Not too long ago I'd get offended when someone said I looked young. Now...this old man takes it as a compliment.

The highlight of my day

2010-07-07T23:54:00.000-04:00

Being an Account Executive is a delicate balancing act. I have to represent the client to my coworkers, and I have to represent my coworkers to the client. Sometimes this means I'm at odds with people, but I feel like I really do try to look out for them.

I did a little finagling today that helped out a coworker. This coworker proceeded to come to my desk, repeatedly thank me, and loudly proclaim that I was the best ever. A few minutes later he presented me with an orange popsicle from his "secret stash." Dude, you don't even know what a huge pickup-me-up that was. Small gestures can mean a lot some times. That was the highlight of my day.

In a Metal mood

2010-07-07T13:34:00.000-04:00

I've been listening to a lot of Metal recently. The last few days it's specifically been Metallica. I must have an anthem for my mood, and the mix of anger, defiance and steady, harsh beats tracks with my feelings and gives a purpose to my feelings.

Nothing else brings me up like their version of Turn the Page. The Spanish guitars at the beginning of Battery sooth my soul before they launch into fast paced rhythmic beats that make me bob my head while I work.

Pick me up Metallica. Let me rock out. Let me feel free. Let their be emotion, but let their also be purpose.

Summer

2010-07-05T22:28:00.000-04:00

Summer: Hey.

Me: Hey Summer, how's it going?

Summer: Going good. So...you remember Winter?

Me: Please don't remind me. I never want to see snow again.

Summer: Yeah, about that...you do know that Winter's little show is forcing me to step up my game. I'm going to have to bring some inclement weather myself.

Me: Yeah...I kind of expected that. So a heatwave or two this summer?

Summer: Something like that. I'm letting August have the whole summer.

Me: But...

Summer: 100 degree weather all the time. Hot, humid, and hazy! Prepare yourself!

Me: This isn't fair...

Summer: And you think you'll be able to escape the heat during the evening? You won't! It won't dip below 85. I promise you!

Me: Summer, have you been drinking? What the hell?

Summer: Code red days till September! You'll be sucking ozone through a straw!

Me: DAMNIT SUMMER!

Summer: And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers.

Me: Summer, stop this! You've clearly lost it. Now you're just quoting Pulp Fiction. I mean the Bible...I mean Pulp Fiction and the Bible.

Summer: The weather will be biblical! Droughts! Dust storms! Lightning!

Me: I'm signing off. I don't need this right now.

Bye

2008-06-08T03:57:00.004-04:00

It's enjoyable for me to think about writing up the conclusion to my "Axe murderer" post, informing ya'll about the continued trials and tribulations of "Get fit or die trying," or trying my hand again at political satire. Unfortunately, the actual writing of these stories has lost it's thrill, and this blog has ground to a halt.

This blog has been a great outlet for me. It's given me the opportunity to express myself creatively, and for that I am grateful. Currently it's languishing in some sort of internet purgatory, where small, half thought out posts get written every month or so. Obviously, this is not fulfilling to me or my dwindling readership. At some point you just have to call it, and that's what I'm doing tonight. If I find some way to resurrect this, I'm sure you'll find out about it.

For the few people who use this blog as some sort of way to keep up with me, I've got an easy solution. Pick up the damn phone and call me-I'm looking at you family/friends. That or you can always track me down through the various online social networks, or messaging programs. Don't be strangers. Bye.

It's a crappy place, but it's my crappy place

2008-05-12T03:02:00.003-04:00

So exclaimed a former roommate of mine. For a while, this offered me some comfort. Even when the worst things were happening, I could take solace in the fact that it was familiar. After almost 2 years in this dump, familiarity just isn't cutting it anymore. It's 3 am and my basement is currently flooding. I'm not taking bets that the landlord will actually be able to get a plummer out here at this hour, but still I am awake. My jeans are partially soaked, I am tired from moving up boxes of stuff from the basement, and I am stressed and angry. As you have gathered I am very much awake, despite my tiredness. I take some comfort in the fact that I will be moving out in week's time. It can't come soon enough.

Not the bears, anything but the bears

2008-04-25T18:06:00.003-04:00

I have an irrational fear of dying in odd manners. This was greatly enhanced about a year ago, when I watched the entire series of Six Feet Under on DVD. One of the trademarks of the show was that it started off each episode by showing the death of a person who ended up in the main characters' funeral home.

Sometimes these death were horrible or sad. Other times they were outlandish, like the jogger who got eaten by a mountain lion, or the house wife who got killed by falling blue ice. Oftentimes they were odd, like the man pulling out of his driveway who opens the car door while still in reverse to pick up his newspaper. Of course he falls out his car and ends up having his head crushed by his SUV.

I have a fear of dying in odd and outlandish manners. No doubt the likelihood of me ever dying because of a bear attack is small, but still the recent news of a bear randomly mauling his trainer has gotten me scared. Oh god, please don't let me be killed by a bear. Any death, but death by bear. If I were to ever go to a fortune teller and ask him how I'd die, and he said, "Well, I see a bear" I'd probably run screaming out of that place... and into the arms of a bear.

Oh, and to wrap some stuff up, I placed 2nd in the basketball tournament. I couldn't ride that 1st place train for more than a few days, but hey 2nd is pretty good too!

Fluffy tournament update

2008-03-30T22:11:00.002-04:00

Holy $#@%! What a week it's been. After a favorable Sweet Sixteen, and a perfect Elite Eight, I've gone from 14th place out of 16, to first place! Am I jinxing myself by writing about my success? Will the cats have the last laugh? Will I be forced to bathe in my own saliva as penance? Stay tuned...

Being outwitted by Fluffy

2008-03-23T18:59:00.003-04:00

I mentioned briefly last year that I participate in a non-competitive college basketball tournament. One of the participants names two of the brackets after his cats, with one of the cats "picking" the winner based on the size of the school, and the other on which mascot could beat up the other mascot. See original post here.

Last year I got third place in the tournament. This year, I am currently third to last-with the cats beating me.

If you choose to have fun with it, I am being outwitted by creatures that bat yarn balls and have substance abuse issues with catnip. If you look at it seriously, I am being outwitted by simple set formulas that don't take into consideration the numerous variables that contribute to the winning and losing in college basketball. All in all, it's a bit humiliating.

Ya'll just made my day!

2008-02-20T23:20:00.001-05:00

“Hey ya'll,” said my co-worker.

I paused for a second. I made sure to take in my surroundings-my messy desk, my black and gold coffee mug, my little laptop. I wanted to remember this moment and everything that was associated with it. I had just accomplished the greatest feat of my life....I had just succeeded in fusing southern dialect with Korean co-workers.

Over three years of being laughed at for saying “Ya'll.” Random moments when my accent would become more pronounced, (mostly when I was angry or tired, or so I was told). Multiple jobs, numerous co-workers, and finally the latest job with an office full of Koreans. English was their second language, but southern would be their dialect if there was anything I could do about it.

I didn't sweat the small stuff, I didn't correct them when they constructed their grammatically correct sentences in perfect English. No, my approach was deeper than that. By constantly saying “Ya'll” I'd eventually break down the proper English grammar they had only recently had drilled into their heads.

Today was that day. Today we had a breakthrough.

Whistle while you work

2008-02-14T23:21:00.003-05:00

GRRRR.

The dogs creeped out from under the trailer. I stepped back slowly.

GRRRRRRRR.

I could see them clearly now. Two lean, medium sized black dobermans. I stepped back quickly. The dogs kept coming.

I quietly called out to my partner, not wanting to further aggravate the tightly wound beasts carefully making their way toward me. The dobermans were about 10 feet away by now and my back was almost to the car.

I quickly opened the passenger side door and slammed it shut. My partner slid into the seat next to me moments later. We looked at each other. I cursed loudly. This was to be our test. Our first neighborhood in the poorest county of a state that had been overwhelmed by a series of hurricanes.

Washed out dirt roads. Church preachers with crooked grins. Militias. A man who initially welcomed me with open arms... till he found out who I was working for. After being chased off his lawn my partner scribbled “uncooperative” in his report. We would learn to whistle when we approached a house/trailer. If something larger than a lapdog appeared we'd get right back in our car and drive off. We learned that staying off the properties that had “No Trespassing” or “Posted” signs was less about being courteous and more about not getting shot.

This was my test. A dose of reality for a recent idealistic college graduate who was desperate for work. At that time a few weeks doing contract relief work seemed better than serving BBQ to yuppie soccer moms and white collar execs who stiffed you on tips.

As I sat in thick Northern Virginia traffic today I cursed the world and pitied myself. And then I remembered relief work. HA!

Chances

2008-02-10T18:36:00.000-05:00

We don't get second chances too often. We make our choices, and we live with the consequences. When McCain first entered the primary race, I viewed it as a second chance-America's second chance to pick the candidate that they should have picked before the 2000 election. Instead some Republicans believed W's “compassionate conservative” bullshit and we got stuck with a war mongering, spend happy president.

At some point, myself and the rest of the potential voters got tired of the image that McCain was presenting. An anti-establishment candidate, who suddenly was not. A moderate who was cozying up to ultra-rightist. At the time, there seemed like better candidates out there. At the time, we believed he was done for.

The roller coaster ride that has been this year's primary season has proven us all wrong. McCain continues to cozy up to ultra-conservatives, and the far right continues to not believe him. As they should-McCain has consistently shown with his voting record that he actually stands for a responsible, moderate range of positions.

He supports a sensible border policy that focuses on border security and internal policies that realize economic necessities and the simple fact that it's impossible to expel every illegal immigrant from the country.

He supports tough foreign policy, yet fights against the barbaric use of torture as a “weapon.”

The McCain-Feingold act while not perfect, is the right step in fighting the excesses of K street. Believe me, I've seen the ugly head of lobbyist influence on American politics, and anything that can be done to curb their influence is a good thing. I know some honest Republicans who actually, seriously believe that it's a 1st amendment violation, but the majority dislike it because they feel that it hurts the Republicans ability to fund raise. When did the duty to fill the money chest override the duty to do the right thing?

McCain would try to have you believe now that he's a conservative candidate. He's not, and his voting record says otherwise. We have an opportunity to elect a candidate who's as two faced as any other politician, but in this current age where destructive policies enacted by W and his brood are damaging our image and interests worldwide, we have to suck it up and vote for the candidate who's actually going to enact responsible policies, current political rhetoric be damned.

I'm too jaded a political junky to call this a full on endorsement. As Obama supporters will find out soon enough, there's no knight in shining armor candidate. “Perfect candidate” is an oxymoron-I choose to look at this as a second (imperfect) chance.

I'm OK.

2008-01-30T21:04:00.000-05:00

The most recent posts have been a bit depressing. The post count has diminished some. Well, maybe a lot. However, I just want to let the small percentage of the population that checks this blog for info on me know that I'm ok. Really, I'm doing pretty damn well.

I'll admit, this isn't the direction I thought I'd be taking this blog. I started this off wanting to make every post a humorous reflection of my life. At the time I wasn't getting the most enjoyment out of the place that I was spending 8 hours a day. If I had to be serious there, and if I had to hold it in, I was sure going to let it out when I started writing.

I need to reevaluate the direction I take this blog. I've considered quiting, but I know that as soon as I hang up the blogging cleats the urge to get back in the game will reassert itself. Introspection and melancholy are ok, but I don't necessarily think I want to continue writing about those things.

Thanks for hanging in there. I'm sure we'll speak again. Adios, and goodnight.

I lie to myself by sucking in my gut

2008-01-17T22:31:00.000-05:00

Dark days seemed ahead at work. Bad news. Hit you in the gut sort of news. Myself and a co-worker headed to the bar to cope. We sat down and began drinking our beers. After finishing off one round, she decided to go home. Before she left, she asked if I would be ok. I looked at her and smiled. I had no intentions of drinking away my sorrows. No, I told her, I would drown my sorrows in warm nacho cheese. Food, not drink was my comfort. Sure enough I headed to that nationwide taco joint that is synonymous with clogged arteries and frequent trips to the toilet. I ignored the pain in my stomach, the food was comforting, that was all that mattered. I felt guilty, but relieved at the same time.

And this process would repeat itself. It had happened before. It would happen again. Because this is how I cope. And eventually I told myself, that one day I would grow tired of repeating that process.

That day is today.

Home?

2007-12-09T20:18:00.000-05:00

The rain washed away the dessert dust from my shoes. Scrub bushes were replaced by office buildings. Herds of antelope anxiously running along the road were replaced by herds of anxious commuters driving erratically in the winter slush. Blue skies and dark, star filled nights that made you ache to write poetry were replaced with the claustrophobic mix of office buildings and crowded freeways. I am back from a weeklong business trip. Is my warm, dirty apartment home, or is it like the old saying and “Where I lay my head is home?”

Blogoversary

2007-11-26T21:18:00.000-05:00

A friend and coworker had just convinced the boss to allow her to start up a company blog. Curiously I decided to contribute to this “new” medium and wrote a lighthearted industry piece late one Sunday night. With trepidation I handed it out at our Monday morning staff meeting. The response was enthusiastic from almost everyone. Due to some internal politics, that piece would never be posted, but I was encouraged and encouraged more by my friend, who kindly offered me a guest spot on her blog. My first post, a piece on Al Gore that referenced global warming, Terminator 2, and the fact that there were “No term limits for mediocrity,” amazingly got picked up by the Washington Post Express website and made me start thinking about doing this on a regular basis.

My first post on my own blog was just shy of one year ago. In that time period I’ve met new friends, and showed old friends a side of me that they had not seen before. Most importantly I’ve just enjoyed writing. Here are some of my personal favorites:

Discovered that I was not in fact Scottish: What’s in a heritage?
Almost died while exercising: Dying trying
A day of moving wrecked by an oversight: Case study: Bursting of an Ego
Proposed a nacho litmus test for friendship: Get Fit or Die Trying, Post-Holiday Edition
Got hit on by the local DNC: Political Ambiguity
Gave some useful advice for Valentines day: Happy Singles Awareness Day!
Proposed betting on the likelihood of friends’ breakups: It must be something in the water
Fumed about my drumming roommate: Dr. StrangeDrum: Or How I Learned to Start Worrying and Hate the Beat
Because a Saturday night just isn’t the same without beer, guns, and Asian hookers: Weekend Recap Part 2: Saturday Night, Beer, Guns, and Asian Hookers
Do you know how many people are still stumbling across my site because of this post?: Dennis Kucinich is an American Hero (and a player!)
Almost died while eating: Salmon in a Pouch
Was preached to by an ax murderer: Moral teachings from an Axe Murderer, Part 1
Changed jobs and left DC…for N.VA: I will miss DC
Proposed a ranking system for nerds: Are you a nerd?
Received my first marriage proposal from a fellow blogger: I’ll have a beer, and “The Final Countdown”
The roommate stops drumming just long enough to parade around the house in his tight underwear: Why Matt will be taking advantage of his insurance in the future

Melancholy

2007-11-13T21:56:00.000-05:00

We gathered around the table at our dive bar and sipped our beers.

Goodbye to close family. Goodbye to close friends. Goodbye to the dive bar. Everything must end someday, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m going to miss you friend. I’m going to miss you dive bar. Everything must end someday, but it shouldn’t be ending right now.

We gathered around the table at our dive bar and sipped our beers.

Fond memories. Where did time go? We never thought things would change.

Reassuring smiles. What will we do without you? I never think things will change.

I sipped my beer. You all sipped yours. We sang our Bon Jovi. We cracked our dumb jokes. We raised up our glasses. We called it a night.

History Lesson

2007-11-06T21:11:00.000-05:00

Stu slid off the rock with all intentions being to land on two feet. Instead, his right foot pushed through the brambles, uncovering a small hole in the mountain face. With one swift motion, his heels dug into the rock, pushing the rest of his body backwards and slightly upwards, before he landed hard on the stone ground.

He sat there quietly stunned for a moment. His uncharacteristic silence made me wonder if he had seriously hurt himself. After a few more moments, he spoke. “Whew!” he exclaimed, before pulling himself up, while favoring his right shin.

Atop Little Round Top, in Gettysburg, PA, we dubbed that newly uncovered narrow crevice, “Stu’s Hole.” Before we left that spot, I had the fortune to warn another of the danger. A little kid, no older than 7 or 8 years old wove in and out of the rocks with a toy rifle in hand; playing soldier. As he came upon us, I decided against giving him a lecture on irony, and instead fixed him a stern glare. In as serious a tone as I could muster I said, “Hey! Be careful. That’s Stu’s Hole right there.”

With a snide tone that I imagine he usually reserved for annoying grownups, he shot back, “Yeah, I know!” and promptly scampered off.

Profile

2007-10-21T22:57:00.000-04:00

Politics, satire, religion and useless trivia, from an obsessive compulsive, transplanted southerner, former conservative, agnostic, self admitted nerd living across the river.

Yep, that’s what the profile says, and I really haven’t been following this that well. So I figure in one fell swoop of my blog I shall satisfy all requirements:

Politics
I watched a little bit of the Republican debate tonight. Huckabee seemed like the most intelligent, rationale candidate, which as one of my friend’s pointed out is exactly why he won’t win in the primaries. I still have no clue how I’ll vote come the election.

Satire
As documented in this blog, I switched jobs back in the summer. Some of you may be wondering what it is that I do now. Well, I heard cats for a living. It can be a challenge at times, keeping the herd together. They’ll go their own way, or they’ll get into it with each other, and before you know it, the fur is flying. Most weeks I’m lucky, and I come away with just a few scrapes. Other weeks, it’s more serious gashes. It’s an expected job hazard. Anyone who tells you differently is spinning a good yarn.

Useless trivia
First person to tell me the name of the artist and song that is played at the end of the Michael Mann thriller Heat will win a free shot/beverage of choice next time I see you/make it to a blogger’s happy hour.

Obsessive compulsive
Thankfully my little neurosis has not managed to manifest itself in my blog. I must make sure that this never happens. I must not let it happen…

Transplanted southerner
It is a crime against humanity that I can’t get decent BBQ up here. A weekend trip to North Carolina has briefly satisfied my cravings, but at the expense of one of my friend’s having to see me stuff minced pork and hushpuppies in my face. It was not pretty, but oh it was soooo good.

Former conservative
Is it bad that I’m actually considering voting for Hillary?

Agnostic
The things that make me think that there might be a god are not found in the Bible.

Self admitted nerd
I’ve posted Star Wars references, and lolcats pictures amongst other things. I’ve definitely justified my nerd status in past posts.

Living across the river
Yup, that’s still me.

He looked strangely familar...

2007-10-08T01:21:00.000-04:00

I scooted off the barstool and wearily made my way to the men's room. With eyes diverted to the ground I rounded the corner and came across a man in a blue shirt standing a few feet in front of me.

As I approached the door, the man stayed his course, walking right towards me. I stepped right to get out of his way, and he stepped left, blocking my way. I kept moving forward, but took a step left to avoid running into him. He stepped right, putting himself directly in front of me again. With eyes still looking downward, I took another step and slammed into a glass mirror. Feelings of annoyance quickly changed to embarrassment, and I glanced up to see my reflection sheepishly looking back at me.

Is work rough for you? Is life throwing a lot at you? Well, take a second and laugh. 'Cause if I can laugh about almost knocking myself out with a mirror, you can laugh at all the stupid things in your life too.

Sunday along the Potomac

2007-09-30T22:17:00.000-04:00

I pushed some shoeboxes aside, pulled out the white scale, and looked at it with unease. I’ve slacked off recently with exercising, and the last few months I haven’t been eating healthy either. I nervously stepped on, and the numbers started counting up…past what I had been last time I weighed myself. They kept going, hitting 200, then 300, as my eyes widened in disbelief, and I began to panic.

I woke up. I would be lying if I said it was in a cold sweat, but nonetheless I was disturbed. Rarely do I have nightmares that clear, and recently I have been having dreams/nightmares that relate to specific parts of my life. I took it as a sign to get off my ass.

On Sunday I headed out for a walk along the Virginia side of the Potomac, starting at Lady Bird Johnson Memorial Park with my main goal being Theodore Roosevelt Island. With a camera and some tunes, I put in about 2 ½ hours of moderate exercise, walking and exploring. Am I ready to compete in fitness competitions? No. Am I still a lazy, fat ass? Yes. But it’s a start…and I got some photos out of it.

Get off your ass and explore my island!

News to me

2007-09-17T00:28:00.000-04:00

I got back from my mini-vacation just over a week ago, but already it is far away in the past. The sunny afternoons, crashing waves, and cool nights were too brief. Much like my marriage.

We arrived at a small beachfront property on Friday. My friend’s family rents the property, and we would be sharing the space with his grandmother and some other family members.

My friend, his wife, and her friend arrived and immediately set about getting settled. It was predetermined that I would take the couch in the living room, and my friend, his wife, and her friend would take one of the bedrooms, which they also happened to be sharing with his grandmother. We all failed to notice the first sign that something was amiss, when his grandmother kept insisting that she would sleep on the couch, so that I could be in the bedroom, and “we could all be together.”

It wasn’t until later that evening out to dinner with the three of them that my friend broke the news from a telephone conversation he had just had with his aunt. “My grandmother thinks you and ______ are married.”

I nearly spewed wine from mouth. My friend’s wife’s friend (Ok, this is getting too complicated, let me just steal a page from the No Sex and the City girls, and call her “Notmywife”) lowered her head uncomfortably. The table was briefly silent save for the sound of snow-crab legs being snapped.

“Wait, what?!”

“She thinks you two are married. You know how she’s become as she’s gotten older. She gets things confused. I’ve told my aunt to assure her that you two are just friends.”

Well that certainly explained her actions from earlier, and also the odd looks she was giving Notmywife and I. The two of us laughed uncomfortably, endured the jokes from my friend and his real wife, made some jokes of our own, and ultimately chalked it up as just one more crazy part of our expected Dewey beach experience.

I cracked a crab leg, sipped my glass of wine, and smiled.

Running

2007-09-06T00:13:00.000-04:00

It’s a familiar justification for a vacation. Work is kicking your ass. You need to get away from the daily grind for a little bit. Some sun, some friends, some adult beverages. It’ll make it all better. You just need to get away from it all. “It all” being work of course.

But what happens when that’s not really the case? When work is fine. When sometimes work seems to be the only thing going right in your life? When you actually find yourself not wanting to go home. You obviously need to get away from something. It’s ok to run away from work. But the rest of life…not so much.

I’m running to the beach…and I don’t care.

Why Matt will be taking advantage of his insurance in the future

2007-08-28T00:15:00.000-04:00

I was greeted by what looked to be a Wookie wearing a pair of briefs. A green pair of briefs. A tight pair of green briefs. I stepped away from the door hesitantly and…

Don’t you hate joining a conversation mid-story?

Ok, let me start from the beginning. It was an experience that happened 3 weeks ago, and I have only now gotten over my trauma to speak about it.

I had just sprained my ankle, or so said the experts, aka my nurse friend from Richmond, who just happened to be visiting me the night the sidewalk and I had an altercation, and my roommate, a surgeon of some sorts. The experts opinion: Probably not broken, probably sprained, would need an X-ray to confirm. Fuck that I say, a “medical probably” is good enough for me.

A few days later the ankle is still as big as a melon. I begin to regret my cocky attitude from just days before. My nurse friend has returned to Richmond. I hurriedly seek out my surgeon roommate.

I knock on his door and announce my presence. “Come in,” he says.

I begin to open the door only to see him sitting in a chair, completely naked save for the described tiny pair of underwear. I back away from the door, unsure whether I have heard him right.

“Come in,” he repeats. I am already committed. I tentatively step through the doorway into his room.

A mantra begins in my head. “You have been in a locker room before. You are mature. You have been in a locker room before. You are mature.”

As he grabs and pokes my foot and ankle, pain shoots through my lower body. It is a welcome distraction. Second diagnosis: Probably still not broken, probably still sprained, probably would need an X-ray to confirm. “I could take you to the hospital and get it X-rayed for you, if you’d like.” Fuck that I say to myself, thank him for his time as I leave his room and immediately seek out a remedy for the BURNING IN MY EYES.

Moral of the story: You get what you (don’t) pay for.

I hate mints

2007-08-20T22:53:00.000-04:00

Peppermint, spearmint, after dinner mint, mint chocolate, most toothpastes-if it’s mint, I hate it. So it is with some oddness that I find myself popping mints in my mouth. Is this like some lesser version of cutting myself?

Or maybe this is some sort of weird analogy for life? A strong, sickly sweet slap to the face, then a cool breath of relief afterwards? Hard times before the good? I can buy that. Winamp finishes up with Kaiser Chiefs, fades into Kansas and then rolls into Kanye West. I take a deep breath, and then exhale minty cool.

A bit more present

2007-08-12T16:10:00.000-04:00

I almost missed you yesterday. You weren’t where I thought you’d be. I got worried when I couldn’t find you initially. I was on the other side of the field, an older side. Older ground. Older stone. Older men.

I should have known to look for you in greener fields. The parched earth and scraggly patches of crab grass gave way to carefully manicured grounds. Freshly planted grass. Newly upturned dirt.

It didn’t look the same as it did when I saw you last. Yesterday was bright, sunny, and warm. I wiped sweat from my forehead as I walked along the rows of your brothers, and remembered that cold, rainy, October day.

The tourist will come to see the changing of the guard, the eternal flame, the resting places of historical figures and brave men from previous generations. They will marvel at how historical it all feels. I do hope that they will take the time to walk to greener fields. Where mothers hug headstones that were not there a year ago. Where markers list dates like July 31, 2007. Where it all seems a little less historical…and a bit more present.

Keep going

2007-08-08T22:44:00.000-04:00

One step in front of the other. That’s all you have to do. Left foot. Right foot. Keep going. Full speed ahead. Don’t stop. Life’s going fast. Short breaths. Keep your pace. Step off that curb. Don’t stumble. You can’t stumble in life. If you stumble you’ll…oh shit what did I tell you about stepping off the curb? Look at your ankle! You just sprained your ankle you dumbass. But you can’t let that slow you down. Got to keep going. One step in front of the other. That’s all you have to do. Left foot. Right foot…

Ooooh that smell

2007-07-27T06:11:00.000-04:00

My freshmen year in college the two guys who lived in the same suite as me smoked pot. A lot. On good days. On bad days. With friends. Alone. Oh yeah, these guys were potheads. Thing is, and I’m not proud of this, I had no clue for almost the entire year. I just thought they were abusers of pine-sol.

See, whenever they smoked pot, they’d dump about a pint of pine-sol in their room. And in the suite. On good days. On bad days. With friends. Alone. Oh yeah, these guys were serious pine-sol heads.

I couldn’t make sense of it. These were some of the dirtiest guys I’d ever been around. But by god, they loved for their room to smell lemony-fresh. By the time May rolled around I abhorred that fake lemon scent.

My nose recently reminded me of this memory while I was at work. Not the smell of pine-sol but of a half a can of air freshener that had been liberally sprayed throughout the office.

My Korean co-workers are nice folks. They know that their foreign fish dishes are not the most pleasing to Caucasian noses. So after marathon microwave sessions, they whip out the air freshener.

I’ve debated on whether to speak up. “I’d much rather smell rotten fish than drown my nasal cavities in lavender mountain breezes.” I don’t think they’d understand. And by the time I’d finished telling them about the pine-sol heads they’d probably regret hiring this jokkah.

I am happy (I've never said profound titles were my specialty)

2007-07-19T21:47:00.000-04:00

I’m rather fortunate to have landed some freelance writing. Somehow I pulled the wool over a business contact’s eyes, and landed the opportunity to do some writing on the side for which I will actually be getting paid. It’s not like I’ve been a consistent blogger or anything, but if you see more drop off than usual, it’s because of this.

I’ve got a post or two already written that I didn’t consider to be quite up to snuff at the time, so maybe I’ll post those in the meantime with a warning that says “Not Across The River’s Best Stuff, but maybe you’ll enjoy, because hey it’s the summer and what else are you going to be doing with your time? Watching reality television? Working? Reading Harry Potter?”

Usually you have to buy me dinner

2007-07-13T04:54:00.000-04:00

Can I just tell you, I have never been so politely felt up and searched as I was on Thursday at the Minneapolis airport.

“You’ve been selected for a more comprehensive search,” said the airport worker.

Gulp. What exactly does comprehensive mean? Horrible visions of Turkish prisons and full body cavity searches flashed through my mind.

A TSA agent came over, directed me towards the X-Ray machines and proceeded to strike up a friendly conversation with me. “Flying to Chicago I see, business I take it?”

Actually sir, I’m heading home to DC, Chicago’s just a layover.

“Oh, ok” he said with a smile. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping over here for “Officer_____”

Officer_____ proceeded to begin giving me an extensive patdown, while the first officer began taking apart my carryon.

The first patdown indicated that I was carrying a wallet and a number of folded pieces of paper.

Sorry about that officer.

“Oh, not a problem,” he said cheerfully as he got back to the feeling.

I smiled uneasily and waited for him to finish. After a few more uncomfortable seconds I was allowed to walk over to the table where the original officer was searching my bag. I proceeded to strike up a friendly conversation with him about a few souvenirs that I was taking back.

I walked away not exactly sure what to think. I was feeling a little bit uncomfortable, but at the same time I was impressed at the friendliness and professionalism that the TSA officers had shown me. As much as part of me was hoping that it would go horribly wrong, just so I’d have a good story to repeat and blog about, I found myself thinking, “Good for them, doing their jobs, efficiently and effectively.”

You’ve reached the blog mailbox of Across the River

2007-07-06T06:34:00.000-04:00

I’m on a business trip and will be back in a week. Leave a message, a poem, an anecdote, an ad, a riddle, a photo, a short story, an analogy, a link, a song lyric, a missed encounter, a joke, a secret, a vow, a revelation…just leave one.

I’ll have a beer, and “The Final Countdown”

2007-07-03T19:14:00.000-04:00

I’m a fan of cheese, and not the eatable, meltable, spreadable variety. I view B-movies with relish and listen to corny music with enthusiasm.

So a week ago when I was at my favorite bar in DC, I began grinning when Europe’s “The Final Countdown” came on the jukebox. As the chorus kicked in, our server jumped in front of the table and exclaimed “I’ve got some important news…It’s the final countdown!” We all had a hearty laugh and thought no more about it.

Until this weekend. We’re back at the bar. It’s the same server and he was getting our drinks. When he got to me I fixed him a serious look.

“Yes, I’ll have a beer…and The Final Countdown.”

The server apologized profusely. He had already played “The Final Countdown” an hour earlier, and would take flak from his co-workers if he were to play it again. I assured him it wasn’t a problem.

Two hours later, and a few beers later, the server came over and slipped a dollar in my hand. “Go over to the jukebox and play it, if my co-workers see me doing it, they’ll give me crap.”

Haha, so there would be “The Final Countdown” in all of its cheesy, 80’s goodness. I ~~walked~~ stumbled over to the jukebox. I inserted the dollar and selected the song. The jukebox then asked for another dollar. Son-of-bitch, it had eaten my dollar! I inserted another dollar and got the same message. It was then that it dawned on me, the jukebox was asking for another dollar to play another song. I had just cued "The Final Countdown." Twice. In-a-row.

A few minutes later the song began, and the server came over. “It’s ‘The Final Countdown’” he said.

“Well, here’s the thing,” I said. “I accidentally picked to play The Final Countdown. Twice. In- a-row.”

Many thoughts must have gone through our server’s mind at that point. Obviously he was a habitual “The Final Countdown” abuser, or else he wouldn’t be slipping dollars to patrons to play it. His co-workers had also obviously given him hell numerous times in the past for his propensity to play cheesy 80’s music.

“OH SHIT!” he exclaimed, and ran off.

Coffee and Korean

2007-06-28T05:27:00.000-04:00

A superficial observation on day 1 of new job:

Awh man I’m tired. I need some coffee. I see a coffee pot, but no coffee. Don’t tell me they don’t have coffee in this office? Is this coffee pot some sort of relic from times past when previous generations that worked here drank coffee? Don’t tell me I’m going to have to spend money on my own coffee.

Boss walks in.

Boss: Where’s the coffee?

2 minutes later. Co-worker comes running in, with packages of Starbucks coffee.

Ah, all is right with the world. Maybe this new job won’t turn out too bad.

A more thoughtful observation after 3 days of new job:

I learn by osmosis, meaning I learn by unconsciously soaking up what’s happening around me. I watch and listen to what the co-workers and bosses do, learn the company culture, and eventually learn the job.

This is kind of hard to do when most of your co-workers are Korean and when they’re not talking with me or the other white guy in the office, speak Korean almost exclusively. As I mentioned in a previous post, I’ve changed careers. How am I supposed to absorb this job if I can’t understand what’s being said?

The solution-I must learn Korean.* Not only to absorb the job, but also so that I can know when they are talking smack about me. **

*I stole this idea from a friend who is learning Japanese for her job.

**I also want to be able to talk smack about my friends in a different language.*

*Wooh, a footnote in a footnote. Did I just blow your mind?

Are you a nerd?

2007-06-19T00:58:00.000-04:00

“So are you one of Dan’s normal friends, or one of his nerd friends?”

The question caught me off guard. What was her definition of normal? What had Dan told her? The look of confusion and mild panic must have crossed my face, as her next comment was more reassuring.

“Ohhh, don’t worry. I work for AOL.”

Oh, thank god. The calmness returned. She was…one of us.

I’ve heard it said a dozen times by DC bloggers. “We’re not all nerds,” or “When I met him in real life, I was surprised to find out that he was a normal guy.” To this I say: normal, what fun is that?

The best thing about being a nerd is learning where you fit in amongst the hierarchy. I’m what you might consider a “Mid-level” nerd. My social skills are lacking at times, I’m good with computers, can quote Monty Python on command, and could probably write a thesis on Star Wars.

That being said, I do have some critical, some might say deal breaking nerd deficiencies. I’m absolutely horrible with math and science. A nerd who sucks at math and science? What sort or nerd are you? Doesn’t that disqualify you from being a nerd? Yes, yes my little padawan, I realize that, notice how I said in a previous sentence, “deal breaking.”

My lack of mad math and science skills has been a source of serious torment in the past. (Ok, scratch that, maybe more “mild aggravation.”) You can’t really do computers as a career if you don’t understand the 0’s and the 1’s.

My lack of science skills has also caused me to fail the litmus test that one of my friends has for being a nerd. He has a plan…no more of a dream, to one day build a gun/machine that can fire a crow through the air. A crow launcher if you will. When he starts to discuss this, it usually involves words such as “C02” and “air speed velocity.” I lose him when he gets to air speed velocity. So what is this litmus test, and the point to this damned footnote you ask? Simply, that if you give him an odd look while he is discussing this, you are not a nerd, and probably not worthy of his time. However, if you join in on the discussion, you have passed the nerd litmus test and may be able to co-patent the crow launcher with him, sometime in the distant future.

What is my ultimate point? Being a nerd shouldn’t be some sort of social disqualifier. No, the question should not be, “Are you a nerd?” It should be “Are you nerd enough?”

I will miss DC

2007-06-08T12:56:00.000-04:00

I just put in my two weeks notice a few hours ago. I'm taking a job in VA, that will essentially be a career change for me.

This has been going on for a little while now, but not something that I wanted to air in a public forum such as a blog, until now. It's been part of what's kept me from writing as much as I would like, and it certainly hasn't taken away from my stress.

I'm uncertain how to feel right now, more drained and sad than anything. I should be able to stay where I am, just across the river from DC, but I'll find out in 2 weeks whether the demands of the commute neccesitate that I move closer to my job.

I'm going to miss taking the metro everyday. I'm going to miss being able to take a walk by the White House on my lunch break. I'm going to miss the people I work with, and I'm going to miss all the little nuances of DC. Oh sure, I'll be in the city on a regular basis to see friends, hit up bars & restaurants, and see the sights, but it won't be the same.

I'm excited about the opportunities that await with this position, but at the same time, change is never easy for me. Sometimes though, it's necessary.

Moral teachings from an Axe Murderer, Part 1

2007-06-05T00:59:00.000-04:00

So I was reading a recent post by Lemon Gloria where she mentions that her father was joking with her about rooming with an axe murderer. And for just one minute, I thought of replying with something to the effect, of “Wow, that’s interesting, I once had an axe murderer contact me.” But then I figured that I’d have to either explain that comment, which would be a blog post in itself, or just let the comment stand, which would make me sound weirder than I already am. Thus, this blog post:

“You’re all going to hell if you continue down this path,” said the letter. Ahh, hate mail, good stuff. Being the general manager for a college radio station did have some benefits. Except this wasn’t ordinary hate mail. This was axe murderer hate mail.

I went to college in a small town. News travels fast in a small town, and tends to have a larger impact than it would in a big city. Jimbo’s tractor exploding? Ehhh, maybe a 3 on the “It’s news scale.” Double homicide with an axe? Freaking 11.

The axing took place a month before my freshman year. It was the talk of the town and the school for a few months.

Roughly three years later, I wasn’t thinking of axe murderers. I was thinking of how I narrowly pulled off being elected general manager of my school’s little student run FM radio station. I was basking in this success, I was finishing up the last of my exams, and I was preparing for the summer. First though, I needed to stop by the radio station.

I arrived at the station and went to speak with the station’s faculty advisor.

“There was some mail addressed to the radio station today. You’re the general manager now…I think you should have it,” said the faculty advisor.

“Oh yeah?” My curiosity was peaked. Normally mail wasn’t something that was important enough to point out, much less hand deliver to the GM.

I was handed an envelope that had obviously already been opened, but the contents were still intact. Before I pulled out the papers stuffed inside, I glanced at the front of the envelope. The return address: ______ County Correctional Facility. The sender: Ezekiel, formerly _____ _____. Cell #________

I was confused. “Ezekiel?”

My faculty advisor fixed me a serious glance. “Do you remember the axe murderer?”

For your consideration

2007-06-01T00:38:00.000-04:00

So life’s been crazy lately. And I can’t really talk about it right now. I like to make my post either reflective or humorous, and I just can’t pull that out at the moment.

In the meantime, I’ll resort to the next best thing-pimping other people’s blogs. See those links on the right? Those are the blogs I read. You should click on them. Below are the cream of the crop; the one’s I try to read even on the craziest of days.

Arjewtino-Well known in all blogger circles, this man needs no pimping. Except for those of you who aren’t bloggers who read this. You must click on that link. Humorous observations from DC’s favorite Argentinean Jew await you.

El Guapo in DC-Arjewtino’s Guatemalan arch-nemesis. His claims of having the best mustache in DC cannot be independently verified, but the stories he tells, especially the one’s that involve his friend Miguel will bring tears to your eyes (usually from laughter). Here is an example, though the written content may be considered NSFW.

Home Improvement Ninja-Do not let his constant sayings of “I’m going to be blogging less” steer you away from checking this on a regular basis. That is just his ninja ways. He will strike when you least expect it.

Journey to Self Improvement-I like her style, she has no qualms about tackling any subject. Whether it be lighter fare, such as a post on pooping or some of her more serious observations on alcoholism, Journey to Self Improvement will always give her honest opinion to her readers.

Last Stop Suburbia-Comes up with the best blog titles for her blog entries and also posts some great photos. I can’t count how many times I’ve asked myself “Now what the hell would the boss think if he came by while I was reading this?”

View from Dupont-I’m not entirely convinced that her blog is DOA. The link will stay up and I will occasionally check it. You should too. The most well rounded blogger I’ve read-she can talk about politics, movies, work-anything, and make it sound interesting.

Writing in DC-Unlike myself and most other bloggers, she is a Real Writer®. While we piddle away on our keyboards and congratulate ourselves when we manage to write four paragraphs, Writing in DC is likely sitting outside a café writing her novel, or a poem-all with a coffee beverage of some sort in one hand, and a cool summer breeze behind her.

Not so deep thoughts on a Saturday morning

2007-05-26T09:04:00.000-04:00

It’s 5 minutes to 9 am and somehow I’ve managed to overload my small head of hair with enough water and hair gel that it’s currently dripping down my neck and on to my white undershirt. I think I will wait a few minutes before I put on the tux. I’m more nervous than someone who’s not actually getting married should be. I hope I don’t step on any of the ladies dresses. I hope I don’t fumble the ring. I hope I don’t mess up my speech. I hope I don’t embarrass myself, or the bride, or the groom.

In 30 minutes I head out the door, and in 2 and 1/2 hours, Braveheart and his fiancé will be Mr. and Mrs. Braveheart. Last Saturday was the bachelor party: paintball, alcohol, and strippers-what a fine day. Today is the real deal. A summary of the wedding and all the embarrassing stories about Mr. Braveheart that I can cram into a page will follow next week-after Mr. and Mrs. Braveheart are safely away on their honeymoon and can’t read this blog.

But I procrastinate. The water and gel have dried. I must ready the tux and ready my nerves, and head to the wedding.

Paintball, the manly un-sport

2007-05-22T01:01:00.000-04:00

I discovered this weekend that there’s something irrefutably manly about paintball.

Laugh all you want, but if you’re a guy and you’ve ever played paintball, you know what I’m talking about.

Go ahead and explain to me how it glorifies bloodshed, desensitizes guys towards the violence of real war, and is just a sad part of our “male dominated, violent society.” Damn right it is. Years of violent television, action movies, videogames, and playing with plastic guns finally have some sort of purpose—without having to go out and really get my ass shot (I’ll get back to you when I’ve figured out exactly what that purpose is). Anyways, sign me up.

It all seems hilarious when you look back on it though. The way you sling your paintball gun over your shoulder after a long “firefight.” The decibels that your voice goes up as you yell, “I’ve been hit!”

It all seems perfectly natural when a teammate yells for you to “Flank left and take those red team sons-of-bitches out.” No one has to tell you what to do when a teammate yells “Covering fire!” When paintballs come whistling your way, you try to dig into the ground like your life depends on it.

At the end of the day on Saturday I found myself in a particularly brutal “firefight.” Paintballs were hitting all around me and exploding on the trees and plywood that was my cover. Somehow I walked away without taking a hit. As I walked off the field and found my friends, I wearily took off my goggles and thankfully accepted a paper towel handed to me.

As I was wiping the paint and the mud from my face, one of my friends fixed me a concerned look and asked, “Dude, your hand’s shaking…are you ok?”

I remember

2007-05-17T01:27:00.000-04:00

Robert Novak of the Washington Post wrote a column on Monday about how Washington, DC was 50 years ago. Buried at the bottom, in the second to last paragraph is a mention of a man, who just so happens to be my great uncle. I will not tell you stories of his life, as I never knew the man, and only know the stories that my immediate family has told me about him.

I have not read his book, and I have not delved deep into his history. Before I read this column, the last time I thought of him was when I happened to find a Wikipedia entry on him and corrected a misspelling.

However, I do remember his death, 12 years ago. I remember attending his funeral in New York City, where numerous important people said nice things about a man I did not know. I remember being awed by New York, a place I had never visited before.

I remember seeing the Statue of Liberty, the UN headquarters, Broadway… and I remember taking a long elevator to the top floor of one of the World Trade Center towers. I remember looking down upon the yellow taxis and other cars that darted along the streets, and thinking, that from this height they looked like bugs. I remember being slightly disappointed, as we only had enough time to visit one skyscraper, and I had wanted to see the Empire State building.

That was the only time I have ever visited New York City. I would like to go back, and go to the same places and see the same sights. I want to go back to that time in my life when I felt safe, even in a city as huge and intimidating as New York. But I can’t, I can only remember. I can only remember the way things used to be.

Note to the mafia, my grandmother is expecting your call

2007-05-15T00:25:00.000-04:00

My plans to record my family history starting with my grandmother, as detailed in this post, are finally starting to take shape. I had to call my grandmother up on Monday evening to get some details squared away. Calling is always an interesting experience when you are dealing with someone who doesn’t have the best hearing. I still remember the last time I called her.

Me: MAWMA, IT’S MATTHEW.

Grandmother: Who? The mafia!?

Me: NO, MATTHEW!! YOUR GRANDSON!

Grandmother: Ohh, hey Matthew. I didn’t think the mafia would be calling me.

Luckily this time, when I shouted my name she understood. The conversation went well, and we worked out a date in the summer for me to head to NC and talk with her.

She ended the conversation by saying how good it was to speak with me and my new northern accent. Ouch, that hurts. I guess only family can cut you to the bone like that.

If I went to a steakhouse, here’s what I would have ordered

2007-05-10T00:05:00.000-04:00

In between 9 holes at the golf course and the time consuming business of tracking down the Real Killer™, O.J. Simpson likes himself a good steak.

Jeff Ruby, of Louisville, Kentucky is the owner of an establishment that serves just that. Unfortunately for O.J., Ruby isn’t a big fan of murderers. Read story here…

O.J.’s lawyer, Yale Galanter (with a name like that, you already know he’s a prick) is predictably saying that it’s racism. Racism, hmm, who would have thought? We’ve never heard that theory used before in connection with O.J.

What’s most amusing is the following comment from Galanter, “He screwed with the wrong guy, he really did. ”

Ohh, haha, someone is having a Johnny Cochran complex. I mean, the playing the race card thing, that was totally predictable, but getting all pissy about it? Wow, you sir are no Johnny Cochran. Get back to me in a year when you can make steakhouse rhyme with racism.

[Edit to add] Looks like View From Dupont has hung up her blogging cleats today. As the person who encouraged this monkey to first guest blog on her site and then to start my own, I owe her a huge thanks. Thanks View From Dupont.

F U Office Printer!

2007-05-09T00:47:00.000-04:00

Watching “Office Space” should be a mandatory requirement for anyone who is entering the workforce as a desk jockey or a cubicle monkey. Laugh now sucker, for soon it will be you having to put TPS reports on every document you submit and having to deal with crazy bosses and co-workers.

It’s only a small part of the movie, but the part that has always rang true for me, no matter what job I’m in, are the problems that the guys have with the office printer. I rarely curse at work, but when I do, it’s not a co-worker that’s gotten me angry, it’s the fucking printer. When I start dropping f-bombs, you know I’m angry, and nothing in that office has taken more verbal abuse than that printer/copier/scanner combo that is constantly jamming.

Trying to get jammed paper out of this beast of a machine is not as simple as just opening up a panel and pulling out the paper. No, it’s much more complex than that. I read a book once that had a scene with a farmer having to help one of his cows give birth. I think this is a good analogy for me having to unjam the office printer.

I’ve got to get down on my knees (must resist the urge to make a juvenile joke here…) roll up my sleeves and then stick my hands into the deep, dark innards of the printer. I feel around and try to locate the jam, all the while getting burned by parts of the printer that are still hot from the previous printing attempt. After burning, cutting, and scraping my hands some more, I’ll succeed in locating the paper. At this point, to chants of encouragement from my co-workers, I’ll attempt to pull the paper out. 1…2…3…PULLLLL! Some days I succeed, and others I don’t. Either way, my hands come out, bruised and covered in ink.

I would really like nothing more than to haul this son-of-a-bitch out to a field, and pummel it with a baseball bat a la “Office Space.” Someday printer…someday when you least it expect it…

A Spring Weekend in DC told through Photos

2007-05-06T23:41:00.000-04:00

I hope to get back to regular posting soon. Until then, my weekend in photos:

Saturday night

I do not know where the flower came from. Somehow it ended up in almost everybody’s hair/mouth, etc this evening.

Another happy couple and that red flower…

The man who refuses to have his photo taken.

Ohhh, too slow grasshopper. Got you. Plus now it looks like you are flashing a gang sign. Word to your mother.

Sunday afternoon

The names and photos of the fallen. I noticed a number of kids slowly and somberly studying the memorial. We may have desensitized kids to images of death and violence, but 58,249 names on a wall makes an impression. I am optimistic about our nation’s youth.

The uniforms may change, but the faces do not. Top, Vietnam War Memorial. Bottom, Korean War Memorial.

I am currently reading a fascinating book on this guy. His character, intelligence and foresight alone were far grander than even this statue can convey.

Sometimes, there's just so much beauty in this world…

Looking out, across the river.

Lou Dobbs, bringing companies closer together since 1945

2007-04-24T00:22:00.000-04:00

The drumming-I never know when it will start and when it will stop. To combat this, I have been trying to spend as little time at my house as possible before the 10pm cutoff time for drumming.

This has been good in some ways. It has given me extra motivation to hit the gym after work. An hour and a half working out is an hour and a half I am not spending pulling my hair out at home.

I go to a gym on the ground floor of my office building (small, but free!). In the past few weeks, more than a few times, I’ve found myself working out with one of my bosses. This has been interesting. She and I don’t really socialize while at work, but at the gym we have a common bond.

Would that common bond be running, you ask? Lifting weights? The fact that you both have matching gym shorts?

The answer to your three questions: No, no, and where the fuck is your mind?

No, we bond easily over our shared hatred of Lou Dobbs, and sometimes Wolf Blitzer and The Situation Room. You see, there’s one television in the gym, and being that this is DC, by law it must be tuned to a 24-hour news station, preferably CNN. If you do have the audacity to change it to Fox News, be ready, Moveon.org has spies in the gym that will produce and air an attack ad directed at you within 10 minutes of changing the channel.

Anyways, back to Wolf and Lou. I don’t really dislike Wolf as much as she does, but we have definitely found the common ground in hating on ol’ Lou. The guy makes it so easy. Every night, he covers three topics, “Illegal immigration,” “The War on the Middle Class,” and five minutes devoted to Iraq.

If you strike me down I shall become more
powerful than you can possibly imagine.

The first two topics are golden. Watch as Lou Dobbs gets angry and engages in “reporting”, with comments such as “The President, Congress and all illegal aliens should be ashamed of themselves for trampling on the laws of the land” or “This is an outrage, what the heck is wrong with Big Business?” or “Don’t test me Christiane Amanpour, you’re making me angry…you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

Oh how we laugh at ol’ Lou. Haha, objective reporting, haha look at the blood vessel burst on his forehead. Ohh, good times…good times.

Salmon in a Pouch

2007-04-18T22:31:00.000-04:00

For various reasons I haven’t posted as much lately. I may not be posting at all after tonight.

This is what I ate for dinner tonight.

Yes ladies and gentleman, this is a picture of the rarely seen Salmon in a Pouch. Rarely spotted outside its natural saltwater habitat, salmon occasionally migrates into plastic pouches, which then make their way into the homes of cheap bachelors across the United States.

Oh, by the way, I had the lemon and dill type. And it looked nothing like that picture. Here is what it really looked like.

I’ve never had fish that was quite this hard…and chewy…and tasting nothing like fish. The lemon-dill water mixture that it came in did little to kill the taste.

I know what your thinking.

What the hell is that yellow gunk next to the “fish”?

That would be tartar sauce.

Well wait, isn’t tartar sauce supposed to be white? That must be the lighting in your photo that is making the tartar sauce appear yellow.

Nope, that’s the color of the tartar sauce. Apparently it’d been sitting in my fridge for longer than I thought. I didn’t really notice its mustard like color until after I’d already eaten half of the fish and tartar sauce.

Oh, well good, it wasn’t intentional. Surely after realizing the fish was terrible and that the tartar sauce was rancid you stopp-

Oh SHIT! No you didn’t?!

I even finished my meal off was some leftover pancakes and some low-fat brownies.

Dude, your stomach must feel like a molotov cocktail just went off inside.

Totally.

Virginia Tech

2007-04-16T17:10:00.000-04:00

When you think back on your Monday, was it really so bad? Was the boss nagging at you the end of the world? Was your pain-in-the-ass roommate really worth getting mad over? Were any of life’s little problems significant at all?

My thoughts go out to all those dealing with the tragedy at Virginia Tech.

Dennis Kucinich is an American Hero (and a player!)

2007-04-10T00:23:00.000-04:00

Dennis Kucinich is one sneaky son-of-a-bitch. At some point in the last three years not only did he enter the Presidential race without anyone knowing (or caring for that matter), but he also got married. Now I know what you’re thinking. “So what?” “Good for him” and “So he found someone his age to settle down with.”

NO ma’am! Dennis Kucinich robbed the cradle and married Elizabeth Harper, a HOTIE, 31 years his junior. Let me provide some visual examples in case it hasn’t sunk in yet:

This guy

Got married to this gal

Now I don’t want to seem unfair and harp on the physical differences, as I realize I’m no Fabio, but looks aside, she married one of the most batshit insane politicians in the US. This guy wants to create a Department of Peace for crying out loud. Bombs and bullets would be replaced with care bears and kittens. Save me.

Want to know the craziest part? She seems just like him, and the story of how they met is cheesier than a plate of nachos with extra cheese. I present to you, How Kucinich Found Love.

I encourage you to read the article, as there are some real gems in there. Like how within an hour of meeting Harper, Kucinich called Mimi Kennedy, better known as Darma’s mother on “Darma and Greg,” to tell her that Harper was the one. Oookkk, kind of odd, but maybe this type of thing happens in political/Hollywood circles. I mean, I bet Dick Cheney calls up Charlton Heston every time he shoots someone in the face.

And how can you not love lines like this:

That Sunday, driving out of Santa Fe with her boss, Elizabeth looked down at the ring she had bought in Arizona. For the first time, she noticed how the stone was inlaid in silver.

The design of the silver was two capital Ks, back to back.

Or this:

In the reception area, she saw a visiting nun in white robes. In his inner office sat a shelf bearing an illustration depicting "light consciousness" and a bust of Gandhi. She studied the lean and intense congressman and felt an attraction.

One day when I’m old, insane and running for political office, I only hope that I can meet someone like Harper. Oh, there will be plenty of big-breasted, platinum blond, gold diggers to choose from, but I can already tell you that what I’ll really want is a young, redheaded beauty…with a passion for crazy.

Get Fit or Die Trying: I Ain’t Dead Yet Suckas

2007-04-05T06:46:00.000-04:00

Those of you within the vicinity of K Street yesterday may have heard an odd noise. The sound was less elephant giving birth and more porn star with laryngitis: “Oh god, oh god. You can do it. Come on, come on. Just five more minutes. Oh god.” Yes my friends, I was trying to run, yet again.

As mentioned before, I’m attempting to “Get fit or die trying,” all before my best friend’s wedding over Memorial Day weekend. Doing this has involved incredible feats of self-restraint and physical prowess. It has required me to do completely unnatural things, like lift weights and run. It’s sad to say, but sounding like a porn star with laryngitis when I run is actually a step up from the animal sounds that I made when I first started running.

To answer the question foremost on your mind, I am still alive; the workout routine has not killed me yet. I am comforted by the fact that if I were to die while running (which is entirely possible), that View from Dupont has already agreed to guest blog on this site with a more heroic sounding ending for me. Instead of telling you that I expired while attempting to chase down the taco truck (Yes, such a thing does exist, think ice cream truck, only with delicious gringofied Mexican entrees. Oh the day I catch you taco truck, oh the day…), View from Dupont would weave a heroic tale of me dying while saving the earth from disaster. She has been instructed to rip off Jerry Bruckheimer liberally, which means I will likely die saving the world from asteroids, or pirates, or ninjas, or maybe asteroids, pirates, and ninjas.

Anyways, back to the sweaty subject at hand. “Get fit or die trying” has gone well so far, but I’m still a way away from the goal I set for myself. If I have to, I will turn to crazy ideas like taking crack, or jumping the fence at the National Zoo and trying to outrun the tigers (nothing like fear to get the old heart pumping!) in order to burn the additional pounds off.

Overall though, I am happy with the results so far. A pair of jeans that a few months ago used to fit snugly now requires a belt to stay up. A pair of shorts that last summer I had to perform various Houdini like contortions to get into, now fits perfectly again. When I show up at the wedding a month and a half from now, I plan to confidently stroll into the church in my newly refitted tux. A few hours later at the reception, I will confidently stroll onto the dance floor, and then proceed to destroy my reputation by attempting to “get down.” Oh, I cannot wait!

A Few Days Late-Blogger Happy Hour Recap

2007-04-03T01:39:00.000-04:00

I somehow got in on a conversation that was going nowhere with my friend Dan, and Lemon Gloria, about Will Ferrell movies. Dan and I weren’t really succeeding in convincing her that Will Ferrell was the best thing since sliced bread, and I started looking for a way to change the topic. In order to prove some point about being able to enjoy non-intelligent movies, I made the grave mistake of switching the topic to the movie 300. Ohh, ball four, and Across the River walks Lemon Gloria.

As she walked away I turned in exasperation to Dan and exclaimed “THIS IS MADNESS!”

“Madness?” he said and paused before his voice changed to a deep growl and he yelled “THIS…IS… BLOGGER… HAPPY…HOUR!” He then proceeded to kick me into a deep, dark hole that conveniently happened to be right behind me.

Of course, if you believe those last two paragraphs, I have some Nigerian friends who would love to talk with you about an unclaimed inheritance.

I had a blast at the blogger happy hour last Thursday. It was really nice to meet I66, who was very chill and was hosting his second to last happy hour. It was also a pleasure to finally meet The Home Improvement Ninja. Anyone who could kill you in your sleep, pick a stock portfolio for you, and renovate your house, all at the same time, deserves some respect.

I met a host of other bloggers including, I Now Pronounce You, Lemon Gloria (I’m just kidding on the above, please don’t nominate me for ‘Most annoying asshole that I ever met at a blogger happy hour’ on Best DC Blogs), Dagny Taggart, and a slew of others that I’m forgetting.

I’m apparently becoming more of a regular with these things, because I’d say about 3/4 of the people I’d already met. I think I’ve done a decent job flattering ya’ll in the past with my previous happy hour recaps, so you’ll forgive me if don’t mention ya’ll this time. ;)

Weekend Recap Part 2: Saturday Night, Beer, Guns, and Asian Hookers

2007-03-29T09:05:00.000-04:00

“I swear, I’ve been drunker than this and shot my guns.”

Ah, that’s comforting. That just makes everything ok. The time to get the hell out of here has come and yet still I sit here with a pair of aces in my hand, and a joker standing on the other side of the room with a loaded pistol.

It was supposed to be a typical poker night. Go out, loose my money to my friends, and come home.

The night starts off with me meeting my friends at a guy’s house that I had only met once before at a previous poker game. He wants to host that night’s game at his place, and my friends and I agree to head over.

He begins the night by shooting a 22 rifle and a BB gun in his backyard. Oookkkk. Not the way I typically start of my evenings, but I can deal. The 22 isn’t loud, and he insists that his neighbors think that he is shooting off firecrackers.

Poker commences. The conversation becomes somewhat vulgar, as is expected when people are freed from the uptight weekday grind and their tongues are loosened with alcohol. The conversation goes further than expected when he begins discussing the various ways he has pleased Asian hookers over the past few years. We all nod our heads and laugh uncomfortably. He briefly apologizes, and blames it on the large quantity of strong German beer that’s he’s had. He weakly stands up, steadies himself using my chair, and then walks into a far corner of the house.

He comes back with a pistol. Some other time I will have to fill you in on how I used to hunt and shoot guns as a kid with my dad and tell you all about my 2^nd amendment beliefs. I don’t remember them mentioning it in the gun safety course, but I’m pretty sure there’s a rule about not handling guns while you’re stupid. There’s probably a rule about not handling them while you’re drunk too.

The gun is waived about, all the while he ensures us that it is not loaded. He hands the pistol to me with the barrel facing my chest. I inspect the gun and see that there’s no clip in the gun and no bullet in the chamber. I hand the gun back to him expecting him to put it away. That was a mistake. Instead he goes outside to shoot it. One of my friend’s follows.

Thankfully at this point, I am not the only one in the room with alarm bells going off in my head. He fires the gun once before we can act. It is much louder than a firecracker. One of the other people in the room rushes outside, pulls my friend inside, and convinces the drunk to stop firing and put away the pistol.

He does so. Shortly after that he gets up again to try to find a video that he had shot (no pun intended) of him doing the nasty with the Asian hookers. Thankfully, he does not find the video.

We soon finish up our game. I leave five dollars richer, an atypical night for me. I do wish that somebody had told me that the joker was wild…and drunk, on this particular Saturday night.

Weekend Recap Part 1: Friday Night, Talk to the Hand

2007-03-27T00:59:00.000-04:00

I got my new toy in the mail on Thursday. As promised, I spent my first full day with the camera taking pictures and trying to make up for years of being a photo phantom. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help when your friends still cling to the old ways and refuse to be photographed.

On Friday night, we spent our evening swilling beer, shooting pool and chilling out in good old Arlington. Unfortunately, I’ll never have photo evidence of the night. Oh the tragedy.

Speaking of tragedies, stay tuned for the epic saga that is Weekend Recap Part 2: Saturday Night, Beer, Guns, and Asian Hookers.

Whatever you do, do not loose to Fluffy

2007-03-23T13:27:00.000-04:00

I’m in a…how should I say…non-competitive fantasy college basketball tournament this year. This is my first year “playing” with this particular group, and one thing I was told right off the bat was: We make brackets for some of our cats.

One of the cats always picks the largest team to win. The other cat picks schools with cat mascots to beat bird mascots. If there is no cat-bird matchup, then it becomes whichever mascot could takes the other one in a fight. Could a gator beat a wolf pack? Could a tiger take a blue devil? These questions occupy my waking moments and haunt my dreams.

One thing is for certain, do not loose to the cats. If you lose to the cats you immediately become not only the laughingstock of everyone in this group, but also less of a person. You got outwitted by a creature that bathes in its own saliva and takes shits in scented gravel. You might as well get down on all fours and start licking yourself, because frankly you’re not any better than them.

Pray that I am not reduced to that level.

How to flatter an older woman

2007-03-22T09:11:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday __________!

This is your 25^th birthday, right? You don’t look a day over 24.

I know, I know, I’m so smooth it should be criminal.

Photographs

2007-03-20T09:27:00.000-04:00

If these pictures have anything important to say to future generations, it's this: I was here. I existed. I was young, I was happy, and someone cared enough about me in this world to take my picture. Robin Williams-One Hour Photo

I’ve never consciously avoided the camera. I’ve just never made an effort to have my picture taken, or to try to take photos of others. When I was recently asked to submit a digital photo to a charity auction, I browsed through three digital photos that I had. The first one was from college, back when I had scruffy facial hair and was about 15 pounds lighter. The second was a more recent photo, but I was clearly drunk. The third wasn’t a bad photo, but I was wearing a suit and sunglasses, and looked like one of the Agents from the Matrix. I ended up submitting that photo, but not without reservations.

I seem to have a supernatural ability to screw up any photos I appear in. Think you can make it easy and just tell me to smile? Not going to work, because your camera won’t capture a normal smile. Nope, I’ll come across like some grinning lunatic in a Jeffery Dahmer look-alike contest. Does your camera have adjustments to eliminate red-eye? It won’t matter, as my true nature will always shine through and you’ll have to use all your Photoshop prowess to remove the glowing red from my eyes.

What does all this mean? Should I just admit defeat, and forever hide from the camera. No! I refuse to let my poor track record deter me from taking photos. In fact, I’ve finally caught up with the rest of the industrialized world, and purchased a digital camera, which should be arriving this week. This year, I vow to take as many photos as possible, until either my friends wrench the camera from my hands and proceed to beat me senseless with it, or the camera grows tired of trying to take good pictures of me and destroys itself.

Dr. StrangeDrum: Or How I Learned to Start Worrying and Hate the Beat

2007-03-14T00:04:00.000-04:00

Well, you see there’s a band.

“Really…”

They need a new drummer, and I want to join.

“So that’s why you’ve been practicing at all hours of the day and night.”

Yeah.

“Do you think you could like not do it late at night while I’m trying to sleep?”

Oh, you can hear it from upstairs? I didn’t think anyone could hear it.

It was at this moment that the blood vessels began popping in my head. I steadied myself and took a deep breath.

“Just not after 10 pm…please.”

Oh sure, no problem.

José wants to be in a band. It’s a band made up of co-workers at the hospital José works at. He needs to get good enough to have a shot at making the band. The fact that all this sounds like the basis for some teen comedy from the 80’s (or a really bad episode of Grey’s Anatomy) is the only pleasure I get out of the whole situation. Well, that and the fact that when I think about 80’s comedies I remember that scene from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, with Phoebe Cates coming out of the swimming pool. Mmm, Phoebe Cates…um, sorry back to the post.

True to his word, José stops drumming at 10 pm sharp every night. Yep, he puts the breaks on the old percussion action at 10 pm sharp, not a minute later, or a minute sooner. José drums from sunup till sundown.

Did I mention that José is just learning how to drum? Learning how to drum means pounding the same note for hours on end. I start twitching after 30 minutes.

Who knows, maybe José and his drumming will take off and he’ll become famous? When VH1 comes to interview me I’ll proudly stand there and say, “Hey, I used to room with that guy…and boy did he annoy the living fuck out of me.”

Well, my intentions were good

2007-03-12T13:32:00.000-04:00

About midway through my Saturday at RFK, I looked straight at my friend Dan and hoisted a beer in his direction.

Me: Hey Dan, it was your idea for us all to do Shamrockfest this year, wasn’t it?

Dan: No…it was your idea.

Me: Oh…well then cheers to me then!

And with that I threw back the green swill in my cup, otherwise known as St. Patty’s Day Bud Light. Ahh, what a glorious day. Beer, loud music, good friends, and Flogging freaking Molly live. If you were there when Flogging Molly was playing, maybe you saw me, swinging from the metal bars of the soundstage to get a better view…until security pulled me down. Yes, View From Dupont, I did earn my moniker that day.

Support our Troops

2007-03-09T00:28:00.000-05:00

I thank God for the free press we have here. Sure, it’s a free press that gives the media the freedom to bombard us with Anna Nicole Smith and Paris Hilton, but at the same time it’s a media that blew the top off the VA’s mismanagement of Walter Reed and other veterans hospitals across the country.

However, before the government noticed, before the media noticed, and long before most of us noticed, various charities were doing their part to help our returning injured vets. One of them, the Wounded Warrior Project, is a group I feel very strongly about.

When vets arrive at Walter Reed, and Bethesda Naval Medical Center, they often have little more than their hospital gowns. The Wounded Warrior Project gives away backpacks filled with toiletries and other necessities, and provides counseling to the vets. At the same time, they help our wounded soldiers navigate the confusing maze of government benefits, and provide opportunities for them to enjoy sports such as skiing and bicycling with other wounded vets. Maybe most importantly, they are a force here in DC, giving wounded veterans a voice, and making sure that their issues are heard.

I hear “Support our Troops” everywhere I go. I see bumper stickers, and ribbons that say the same thing. It’s a popular phrase nowadays, because it’s an easy thing to say. Supporting our troops is an issue that transcends political parties. Say, “I support our troops,” or “I pray for our troops” as much as you want, but what these troops need more than our thoughts and prayers is real, physical, support.

I’m currently working on organizing some sort of fundraiser to raise support for the Wounded Warrior Project. It will most likely involve this blog, so I’ll be sure to let you all know how you can help.

In the meantime, do me favor. Pray for our vets. Say thank you to a vet you know. Hug your grandfather that served in World War II. But most importantly, support our troops, by giving.

It must be something in the water

2007-03-07T00:57:00.000-05:00

It seems like all my friends are either getting married, or are taking serious steps like moving in with their SO. All of this makes me officially feel like an adult. You would have thought that having a job, paying rent, and hearing Guns N’ Roses on a classic rock station would have made me realize that’s I’m no longer a kid, but nope, it’s been my friends getting engaged.

In college, marriage was always something my friends and I took bets on. “Which one of us will get hitched first?” we used to ask. We jokingly agreed that it would be one of our friends, we’ll call him “VABeach,” just because we could never see a player such as him settling down. Sure enough, I attended VABeach’s wedding back in October.

I’m not bothered though, in fact I’m pretty darn happy that my friends have found happiness. It does occasionally get on my nerves when it’s rubbed in my face, but you know what, I’ve got a new weapon. I’m going to start taking bets again. Haha, oh yes, my friends, you may say that you love your fiancé/wife/husband more than the moon and stars, but that doesn’t change the fact that the divorce rate in America is close to 60 percent.

Which one of my friends will be getting divorced first? Oh, I know, it’s a cruel game to play, which is exactly why you should play along. And you know what, really rub it in your married friends faces by betting in front of them. Here’s some theoretical dialogue: “Jack’s sure got a temper, so my money’s on Jack and Amy getting divorced first. Oh wait, but you two have almost nothing in common, and it’s common knowledge that Dianne is marrying you for your money, so I’ll place my bets on you.”

Depending on your friend, you’ll come to one of two realizations, either A) Getting married hasn’t made my friend lose his sense of humor, or more likely, B) I have a low tolerance for being repeatedly punched in the face.

Birthday Post and Blogger’s Happy Hour Recap

2007-03-02T17:41:00.000-05:00

Fuck yeah, I turn 25 tomorrow! I took today off from work to celebrate and plan to go out for a nice dinner and some bar hopping tomorrow evening with friends. I’m happy I took today off, as it gave me a chance to sleep in after a long, but fun blogger’s happy hour.

I huge thank you to Arjewtino, KassyK, Roosh and Virgil Kent for hosting the happy hour. I had an awesome time meeting new people and seeing old faces.

A few quick recaps/shout outs:

Arjewtino-Easily the nicest, and well-dressed blogger in DC. It was good seeing you again.

KassyK-Neither of us could remember if we’d met at the blogger's h-hour in November. Thank you for introducing me to so many other bloggers this time around.

Roosh-When he’s not getting his game on, Roosh is one of the chillest people around. Hmm, maybe that’s the secret…

Journey to Self Improvement and Last Stop Suburbia-One day we’ll break our shackles and start a wallflower revolution. Until that day…

Boz-Not the bees!

TexPundit: Red headed sluts rock. Good to see you again.

Others: A Total Waste of Makeup, Scarlett, No Pasa Nada, Brunch Bird, LMNtal Attraction, and so many others, it was good meeting/seeing ya’ll. I had a long conversation with a fellow pr flack, but can only remember his first name, not his blog name. Damn, it’s usually the opposite.

Finally, I leave you with two pictures taken almost 4 years ago on my 21^st birthday at the exact moment that some say I became a man.

Am I a movie masochist?

2007-02-27T00:04:00.000-05:00

So I watched the Oscars on Sunday night, and it got me thinking about movies. I’ve seen a couple of high caliber films in the past few months. Two of them, Little Miss Sunshine, and Stranger than Fiction fell into the thoughtful, quirky, intelligent, feel-good category. Two others, Letters from Iwo Jima, and Pan’s Labyrinth fell into the thoughtful, depressing, going-to-go-shoot-yourself-in-the-parking-lot-afterward category. Guess which category I appreciate more?

As much as I enjoyed the former set of movies, the latter set impressed me more, because I think the fact that “entertainment” can be depressing is a fascinating oxymoron. Being able to arouse joy and depression in movies isn’t the hard part. Shoot, just show me video of a monkey on a unicycle and I’ll be grinning from ear to ear. Put a child with Down syndrome on screen, and you’ll likely elicit a tear from me.

What I find interesting is why I “enjoy” depressing subject matter in movies and television. I think it’s similar to the roller coaster effect-we enjoy roller coasters because it gives us the rush of fear, but without the actual danger. I enjoy depressing cinema and TV because it gives me a rush, but without having to deal with the real circumstances surrounding the depression.

Before you start sending me Paxil in the mail, or try to cancel my Blockbuster card, let me just say that the “depressing rush” is only a part of the reason I enjoy these movies. Dealing with dark subject matter, and not trying to tack on a happy twist is something else I admire about these movies. Life’s dark at times and doesn’t always have happy endings. Any movie that attempts to show this earns my respect, because they didn’t go for the easy, less realistic, rosy picture.

Finally, I’ve become convinced that I must see West Bank Story, the winner for Best Live Action Short Film. Any movie that describes itself as “A little singing, a little dancing, a lot of hummus,” has to be freaking awesome.

This is your history…

2007-02-22T00:02:00.000-05:00

I’ve decided to take it upon myself to become the unofficial family historian. I want to find out not only as much as I can about the history of the various sides of my family, but also most importantly, I want to gather as many stories as I can, straight from the horses mouths if possible.

I’m going to start off with my dad’s side of the family, which means a road trip down to North Carolina either this spring or this summer to see my grandmother, who is in her late 80’s. She’s half deaf, her mind is starting to go, and you eat her cooking at your own peril. I’m heading down there with a camera, and most importantly an audio-recording device of some kind.

Why have I decided to take on such a potentially torturous task? A few reasons: A) I have been reminded so much in the past few months of how mortal we all are. B) My dad’s never been the talkative type, my grandmother on the other hand…C) I think I’m well prepared to ask the right questions and do this interview justice. Having a degree and a job in the communication’s field has to be worth something. D) My grandmother’s the only living grandparent I have. She’s been plagued by medical conditions most of her late adult life and may not have all that much longer. I don’t know her as well as I should, and honestly one trip won’t suddenly make us close, but it will allow me to record some of the stories that will be lost when she dies.

If this all sounds a bit morbid, don’t worry, I feel the same. This won’t be my entire vacation though. I plan to take a few days of “real vacation,” and maybe visit a friend in California, or see my sister in New Orleans. However, this is something I feel strangely compelled to do. I want to hear my grandmother’s stories, even the ones that might seem pointless to her, because I expect that they’ll give me some insight into the personalities of my family members. I want my future kids and grandkids to know where they came from. I want to be able to say, “This is a part of the Across The River family history. Listen as your great-grandmother recounts the story of how your grandfather knocked out your great-uncle with a crowbar when he was 8-years-old.”

Rocks. Pestilence. Snow. Dating.

2007-02-20T00:41:00.000-05:00

About an hour into my drive from Richmond to NOVA, a large rock flew up from a Mack Truck and hit the right corner of my windshield, exactly where an earlier rock had hits a few months earlier. Within another hour, an inch wide crack became a foot long crack. I considered my options. If the cracking continued on its present course, it would start to seriously impede my driving ability. I didn’t hesitate though, I had a date.

As some of you may remember, a long time ago, in a blogosphere far, far away, I had signed up for an online charity auction. I’m Not going to expose the identity of the female who bought me. I know how blogger’s value their anonymity.

I had to warn her beforehand that I might not be able to live up to the high expectations that had surely been building in the past three weeks. Three weeks of delays due to flu, school, and inclement weather. Oh it was only a dinner date, but by god, whenever it happened, I was going to give her her five dollars worth.

Anyways, the date with said anonymous blogger took place last night at Sweetwater Tavern. It was a nice evening. We had a few drinks with dinner and talked about music, family, jobs and cupcakes.

Thanks to the No Sex and the City girls for doing the auction. Not only did they put my ass on the auction block and get me a date, they also rose close to $1000 for charity, an impressive feat.

Happy Singles Awareness Day!

2007-02-14T01:16:00.000-05:00

I’m not bitter. Really. I’m happy. Companionship? Fancy dinner? Sex? Bah, who needs it? I’ve thought of a number of fun things I can do today and tonight. If you’re single like me, may I suggest that you:

Show up at the restaurants where you know your “couple friends” are going to be. When they ask you why you are there, throw the question back at them and ask them why they’re out tonight. Act shocked when they tell you it’s Valentine's Day, and then mutter, “Now things are starting to make more sense.”

Watch the perfect Valentine's Day movie, and by perfect Valentine's Day movie, I of course mean the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy. Bonus points if you turn it into a drinking game where you take a shot every time Frodo says “Oh Sam!”

Enjoy a romantic evening alone with just you and Papa John’s Valentine's Day Special: Buy one pizza, get a free pie.

Spend the entire day at work singing along to the cheesiest, sappiest music you can find, preferably from your “Greatest Hits of the 80’s: Power Ballads” CD. Bonus points if you can somehow work the lyric “Every rose has its thorn” into a normal conversation with your coworkers.

Go to the store, pick up one item like lotion or gel, and then get in the longest line possible. While in line, keep repeating, “Party for one tonight, yeahhh baby,” interspersed with porn music sounds like “bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

English, do you speak it?

2007-02-08T00:18:00.000-05:00

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

“No.”

It was at this moment that I pushed the speakerphone toward View from Dupont, flashed my biggest, toothy grin, and reclined back in my chair. I hadn’t planned on being on a long distance phone call with an Italian receptionist at 10 in the morning, but sometimes work has a way of surprising me.

My task for Wednesday morning: Track down an important researcher at all cost. Important Researcher was supposed to be in California, but wasn’t answering his phone or responding to his email. Oh yeah, and he’s Italian.

After failing at the normal ways of contacting Important Researcher, like calling the hotel he was supposed to be staying at, I realized I was going to have to try to call the university that he teaches at in Italy. Except my Italian consists of about three words: sí, pizza, and sopranos.

Luckily, View from Dupont had spent some time in Italy. I explained my situation to her and asked if I could commandeer her for this important task. View from Dupont explained to me that she remembered many important Italian phrases such as “Can I bum a cigarette?” I didn’t hesitate for a moment, “Come with me to my office,” I said. I figured at the very least we’d be able to get some cigarettes out of the phone call.

Armed with View from Dupont’s strong grasp of the Italian language, and supplemented with the infallible Babel Fish, we proceeded to call Italy. After determining that the receptionist did not in fact speak English, I sat back and let View from Dupont work her magic. She proceeded to launch into long strings of Italian phrases that I can only assume translated into “The dog is over there. The shirt is red. The car is old. Nice to meet you.”

View from Dupont’s impeccable Italian must have worked, as the receptionist proceeded to ask something in Italian to the effect of “A professor?” I instantly perked up. Ha ha! – an opportunity to contribute, and use my Italian. “Sí!” I exclaimed.

We were able to get a phone number from the receptionist and then ended our call. View from Dupont and I proceeded to celebrate. We then looked closer at the number. It was the exact same phone number we had before, the phone number that the researcher had not been answering. Damn, all that work for nothing, not even a free cigarette.

Super Bowl

2007-02-05T13:23:00.000-05:00

It's a fairly busy day, so not much time, but a few quick thoughts.

I'm an unabashed fan of Super Bowl Sunday's. Yeah, it's probably stereotypical, but if done right, the Super Bowl is like a holiday to me.

Yesterday was just about perfect. I sat around with a group of my closest friends in comfortable lazyboy's and couches. We drank a number of good microbrews and consumed way too much pizza and chips & salsa. I talked a lot of smack about da Bears before and during the game. The commercials were pretty good, and Prince was decent.

Most importantly, the Colts won and in the non-trash talking spirit of Tony Dungy, I will not go on a rant about how the Bears were 2006's most overrated team, and how Rex Grossman single handedly won the game... for the Colts. No I will not, I will leave that to other more insensitive souls.

No coffee=Me caveman

2007-01-31T01:02:00.000-05:00

When I got to work Tuesday morning, I put down my things and proceeded to stumble into the kitchen. My brain had only one thing on its mind: coffee. One of my bosses had already beaten me to the punch and was starting to make a pot–except he couldn’t, because we were out of coffee.

Because neither of us had had coffee yet, we did not yet have the energy to panic. Instead it was a more subdued reaction:

Boss: No coffee.

Me: Check under sink.

Boss: Only decaf.

Me: Fuckindecaf.

Boss: Ugh.

As you can see, we were reduced to short sentences and guttural utterances. The gears turned slowly in our heads and my boss headed back to his office:

Me: Oh, benevolent leader! Shall I proceed to the nearest grocery establishment and procure some coffee?

Boss: Yes, you shall. Proceed at all haste, and remember to take the money out of petty cash.

Of course the conversation went nothing like that. We hadn’t had our fucking coffee yet silly! Plus, we’re not gay, nor are we European. No conversation actually took place as we had expended our limited supply of words earlier. Instead we communicated silently, our understanding forged through a shared bond of weariness. I pointed toward the petty cash drawer. My boss nodded his head slowly in agreement.

I headed across the street hunched over, but with determination in my morning stumble and proceeded to pick up some coffee. By the time I got back to the office, my boss had summoned enough energy from some secret reserve to sing my praises.

Boss: You are a saint. You got this handled?

Me: Grunt.

Boss: Oh, ok.

Coffee was soon consumed in massive quantities, and I regained my ability to speak, began walking upright, and stopped clubbing women in the office. If you ever do happen to see me before I’ve had my coffee, I apologize ahead of time. As described above, I’m a caveman without my coffee.

Political Ambiguity

2007-01-29T07:45:00.000-05:00

Oh Democrats. You’re certainly trying hard to get me to change sides. You’ve been sending me mail, asking me to join you. I’ve been a Republican for so long though. I’m just not sure whether I’m ready to go all the way.

I’m so confused now Democrats. The way you make me feel. The way you touch me on…the important issues such as global warming, Iraq, and economic policy.

I’m just not sure I’m ready to play for the other team yet you know? I mean sure I voted for Webb in the last election, but I think that’s more because of seven years of Bush. That man could drive even the hardest of hardcore conservatives to vote Democrat, not to mention us moderately confused souls.

And would it hurt you to call once in a while? Letters are nice, but they don’t have the same effect as a prerecorded telephone message. Oh sure, you’ve been busy, first 100 days in office and all that jazz. I understand how it goes.

Even if I do vote for you again, don’t be thinking that I’ll open my wallet for you. I’m saving my first…political donation for a candidate that I feel strongly about. I’m sorry Democrats, I’m just old-fashioned in that way. It was the way I was raised. If that’s all you’re looking for, I’m sure you can find plenty of DC folks who are willing to throw their political donations away like it means nothing.

Well, I certainly have a lot to think about Democrats. You’ve given this red stater a touch of the blues. I don’t know whether I’ll ever vote for you again Democrats, but I’ll always remember that sense of hope for the country that we shared, on an election night not long ago.

I heart bolt cutters

2007-01-24T01:23:00.000-05:00

Monday evening started off like many evenings. After work I decided to hit up my work’s gym (free!). I changed into my gym clothes and then proceeded to put everything in my locker and locked the Masterlock. Except I put everything in my locker, including my key to the lock. Doh!

Sheepishly I walk through the lobby and to the front desk, where I proceed to explain my situation to the desk guard. She puts in a call to maintenance and promises someone will be down shortly.

It’s about 6 pm now. People are leaving their offices and making their way through the lobby. I’m standing around in shorty, short gym shorts and a thin t-shirt. I’m getting a lot of looks. Maybe it was my pale white legs that have been known to cause snow blindness if you stare at them long enough. Maybe it’s the fact that it was cold in the lobby and my nipples were so hard I could probably have cut glass. Either way, it was an uncomfortable 20-minute wait.

The maintenance man finally shows up with some bolt cutters. We make our way to the men’s locker room where he proceeds to snap the lock off. I marvel briefly at the power of modern tools and thank him a few times. He introduces himself as Alex, I shake his hand, and he is on his way.

Thank you Alex, and remember kids, dementia isn’t just an old folks condition anymore.

Big hits require big bosses

2007-01-23T01:00:00.000-05:00

The main goal of my profession is to generate media coverage for clients. Mainly we seek out reporters, but reporters also have a few online resources at their disposal to find stories for themselves. Here’s a particularly interesting query from a reporter (bolded parts have been changed to protect the identities)

The CEO lifestyle of being on the road, eating in restaurants, and having little time for exercise, can't be good for weight control. I've already done interviews with two Fortune 500 CEOs about how they fight gaining weight. I'd like to round out the story with a couple of more. I'm the important reporter at really freaking huge national newspaper and I'm looking for CEOs who are or have been overweight and willing to talk about their battles against it.

This could actually be quite a cool hit for a client depending on how good-natured they are. Ever since Enron, CEOs have been fighting an image battle like no other. A human interest story like this would generate tons of goodwill. However, what if your client is not so good-natured?

Me: Hey CEO of huge corporation.

CEO: Hey unimportant peon for PR firm.

Me: I can totally get you a hit in really freaking huge national newspaper.

CEO: Oh, really. What’s the topic?

Me: Well, it’s on how fat you are.

CEO: Excuse me?

Me: It’s about how corpulent you are.

CEO: You have some round objects! You’re fired!

Fortunately, I won’t be having this conversation, as I can’t think of any of our execs from our clients that are fat. However, it does make you wonder what the media value for a pound of flesh is. (+1 to those of you who get that.)

All is right with the world

2007-01-21T22:47:00.000-05:00

There is snow on the ground. (Half of DC's driving population will decide to take public transportation tomorrow morning, thus causing horrendous overcrowding and backups on the Metro. When you are reading this Monday morning, my 5'6" frame will probably still be crammed in the armpit of some 6'5'' hulking behemoth. Oh well, happiness is fleeting anyway, I will enjoy it today.) Hooray!

Those press loving, sympathy soaking Saints bastards lost. (If I see one more Katrina special disguised as Saints' media coverage, I'm going to throw up. Maybe next year the press will stop linking the Saints' success to the well-being of the city of New Orleans.) Hooray!

In a double dose of “All is rightness,” the Patriots lose and the Colts win. Score two for this Bill Belichick hater/Peyton Manning lover (umm, Peyton Manning fan…you know what I mean). Hooray!

The Humanity of our Enemies

2007-01-20T16:28:00.000-05:00

I saw “Letters from Iwo Jima” today. The movie is from the viewpoint of the Japanese during the American siege of the island during WWII. It’s a complexly shot movie at times, with sweeping shots of American battleships and bombers bombarding the island interspersed with shots that look like they were taken with a handheld video camera of soldiers charging machinegun nests and dying on the beaches.

Despite the complexity of the shots, it’s a movie with a relatively simple message: our enemies aren’t much different than you and I. They have the same fears, they face the same trials that we do, and they have families that care about them, and will mourn their loss.

Humanizing our enemies today is something very hard to do. The uniformless, ski mask wearing militants that set roadside bombs and ambushes for our troops are a faceless enemy. They attack innocents, they capture and execute Americans working in Iraq, and then they melt back into the civilian population. It’s very hard, if not impossible for us to identify with them.

Over 60 years after the war ended, Clint Eastwood was able to make a movie where we empathize with an enemy that killed thousands of our troops, beheaded and tortured our POW’s and killed countless civilians throughout Southeast Asia.

Is that something that we’ll ever be able to do with this war? Will 60 years, or even 160 years be enough time to forgive? Will it be enough time for us to see their humanity? More importantly, will it be enough time for them to see our humanity?

Confession

2007-01-19T13:41:00.000-05:00

I have a confession to make. I froze last night. It was bone chilling walking around DC and I froze my ass off walking to the metro last night. At one moment during that walk I briefly wished for warmer weather. Just briefly mind you, just a millisecond of a thought of warmer days past, but enough to make me a hypocrite nonetheless. I hope it makes all you cold weather playa haters happy.

Bless You Cold Weather

2007-01-17T00:24:00.000-05:00

The wind blew. It nipped at my face. It pierced through my thin jacket. It made me work for each and every step as I made my way to the metro. The cold reached an almost intolerable level. And you know what, it’s about damn time!

Oh you warm weather people have certainly rejoiced this winter. “Oh isn’t this weather lovely.” “It’s such a mild winter.” “Gosh, I love 70 degree Januarys.” I hate you all. There’s a time for warm weather–it’s called the summer, and it should have ended months ago.

I may have to turn in my Southern Card for this, but I don’t enjoy the warm weather all the freaking time. Warm weather exposes part of my heritage that I try to hide…my swine heritage. It makes me sweat like a pig whenever the mercury goes above 70.

August 2006 in DC is just one big muggy, dripping memory. I remember sticking to the pavement, wilting in the heat, and braving code red days. I remember taking a date on a mile walk/Bataan Death March from the King Street metro station to a bar in Old Town Alexandria during one of those code red days, and I remember once we got to the bar knowing that all the beer in the Old Dominion could not save that date.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fan of extreme cold weather either, but I need my seasons. I need for a few months of the year to be hot and I need the others to be cold. It doesn’t have to be a perfect 50/50 split, but it better be close. In January if the AC is still running, if the bears aren’t hibernating, and if I can lay on the sidewalk, flap my arms up and down and make sweat angels on the pavement, then something is horribly, horribly wrong.

Thank you cold weather for setting the world right.

Pointless day, hopeful future

2007-01-14T23:25:00.000-05:00

He flips the music on. The guitars, drums, bass and trumpets seep into his ears through his headphones. The sense of being enveloped by the music is comforting. The house is dead quiet. He has barely spoken a word all day. Bono is talking about “Sunday Bloody Sunday” but his day has not been quite as violent or revolutionary. He woke up, checked his email, ate, watched football, and went for a short, painful run. He can’t help think that this is more of a “Sunday, meaningless Sunday.”

He will try to mean more tomorrow. He’ll look at some apartments with his roommate, he’ll pick up a replacement monitor for his computer, he’ll do some cooking that doesn’t involve the microwave, he’ll try to run again-this time with less gasping of pain.

Tomorrow is Martin Luther King Day. They leave off the Lee/Jackson part up here. He doesn’t shed too many tears.

Martin Luther King Day will always be a landmark of a different sort for him. It was that day two years ago that he came up here with a suitcase and few collared shirts to stay with a friend while he looked for a place in his new hometown. The day after Martin Luther King Day he started his first paid foray into the world of public relations, and the world of being on his own. He’s damn proud of what he’s done in that time period. He also wishes he could have done more, but that’s what the present and the future are for, right?

Two years have passed, but he’s got an entire lifetime ahead of him to do things the way he wants to fucking do them. Two years ago was a new beginning, but right now is where the opportunities are. I refuse to become complacent. Here’s to an active, aggressive 2007, and one where I write less in the third person singular for no apparent reason :).

The costs of war

2007-01-12T02:28:00.000-05:00

Before the heavy stuff, let me just pimp the The Not Girls Charity Auction one last time. It supports a great cause, and I hope that it leads to a bunch of copycats down the line. I’d be lying to you if I said that you should bid on me purely to support charity. I wouldn't mind a decent date to start of 2007. Anyways, on to the meat of the post…

I knew Shane for 3 years in college. We had numerous classes together and worked on many projects together outside of class. He was popular with just about everybody. He was also a part of the ROTC and was deployed soon after he graduated. He survived his tour in Afghanistan. A grenade took his life in Iraq. I saw him laid to rest at Arlington National Cemetery in October. The memory of his wife loosing it as she was handed his flag will forever be burned in my memory.

Heath is missing both of his legs. He lost them in Iraq. He has a young son who plays soldier by marching in place by his dad’s side. He wants to be like his dad. He doesn’t fully understand his dad’s physical limitations. From what I know of him, Heath would not want you or I to feel sorry for him. He would just want you to know that medics save more lives today in the field than in any other war, which means a greater percentage of wounded soldiers returning home than any other war. Heath currently works for a veteran’s charity. It’s called Wounded Warrior Project.

I’ve been an optimist throughout most of this war. I still remain optimistic mainly because I can’t fathom the consequences of failure. I do not want to leave a failed terrorist state to the next generation. I pray that the sacrifices of those of who have not returned home and that those who return home missing a part of themselves are not in vain.

“Across the River” aka Matt to Be Auctioned for Charity

2007-01-11T02:44:00.000-05:00

Arlington, VA- In coordination with the women at No Sex and the City, “Across the River,” better known to friends as Matt, is to be auctioned off in The Not Girls Charity Auction. The auction benefits V-Day, a global movement to stop violence against women.

“If I weren’t dating Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter, I’d be all over this like white on rice,” said Jessica Biel. “Not only is Matt creative, smart, funny, and sexy, he also writes an impressive quote. I mean look at this entire thing, it’s all made up, but with his knowledge of libel and parody there’s not a thing I can do. Now that’s hot.”

“You can’t seem them beneath the shades in that awful photo, but Matt’s eyes are like the color of the Potomac,” said House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. “Sometimes green, sometimes blue, gray or a murky brown with silt in them, you just have to gaze into his eyes in person to get the full effect. I’ve made it my agenda in the first 100 days of Congress to raise the minimum wage, pass stem cell research, end subsidies for oil companies, and get this man a date.”

The brainchild of the women of No Sex and the City, The Not Girls Charity Auction is an eBay style online auction running from January 11-13. For more information on V-Day and how you can help them end violence against women, please visit their Web site at http://www.vday.org/main.html.

I remember when I lost my mind

2007-01-08T00:11:00.000-05:00

“You have any suggestions on marathons?” I asked my fitness guru/known marathon running co-worker on Friday.

She looked at me disbelievingly. “You’re running a marathon?” she said with a tone that implied “You’re not only fat, but you must be crazy,” and a quizzical look that said, “You’re fat, crazy, and going to run a marathon?”

“Yeah…” I said. “It would help me with things…” I hadn’t told her about “Get Fit or Die Trying 2006/2007” and I didn’t feel that now would be a good time to explain how I had riffed off of a 50 Cent album to come up with a humorous and motivational name for my workout/eating routine in order to motivate myself. Yeah, that certainly would not help in any way to dispel the crazy notions.

The original goal of the workout routine was to get myself in better shape by May so that when my friend gets married I can not only be the best man, but also feel like the best man. That and not die of cardiac arrest on the dance floor. (The fact that I cannot dance is a minor detail.) However, I’ve come to realize that May is a long way away and I’m going to have to set some short-term goals along the way in order to be able to reach that big goal.

I’m currently looking at some 5-mile marathons in March and April. I can barely run one mile right now, so this could be interesting. I figure March or April will be enough time for my friends to scrape my remains off the pavement and put me back together before the wedding. (Gentlemen, we can rebuild him, we can make him better than he was before. Better…stronger…faster…less geeky.)

On a related note, I know many of you have to be disappointed in the current tone of this blog. I can sense your lamentations: “I invest 2 minutes out of my busy day to read this thing, and all this idiot talks about is his stupid fitness goals.” I feel your pain my disenchanted reader, but promise you that stimulating and amusing content is on the way. Topics to look for include a politics post that will no doubt have you tearing your eyes out and wishing that you were reading an real politics blog, details on how you can support a good cause and win a date with me (just think of it as supporting 2 charities), and a recount of my fun time unexpectedly cruising DC with a fellow blogger on Saturday night.

A copout

2007-01-05T13:16:00.000-05:00

Yeah, so my creativity and mad writing skillz™ have been sapped by work this week. I will end this week with a number of videos that have had me chuckling:

Charlie the Unicorn

Interesting study of spiders

Get Fit or Die Trying, Post-Holiday Edition

2007-01-02T12:16:00.000-05:00

Over the holidays my “Get Fit or Die Trying” tour/fitness goal took a massive gangsta style hit. It was a holiday massacre. An entire week of fast food, home-cooked food, holiday food, and for good measure almost complete lack of exercise put the tour in the ICU. I managed one run the entire week and managed to burn a few calories helping friends move this past weekend, but overall, pathetic.

However, worry not dear readers, “Get Fit or Die Trying” is continuing in 2007. It’s back to whole wheat bread, salads, and other tasteless foods. I also start back up at my gym this week. View from Dupont has said she wants to hit the gym with me, which initially concerned me. As I’ve detailed before, I look more like a rabid monkey when I’m exercising, and the thought of someone I know seeing me in that state initially worried me.

I got over that worry when I thought about it a little more. View from Dupont has seen me at my worst and probably has no illusions, because we’ve already done the deed that exposes the most sloppy, primal part of ourselves.

I am of course talking about eating nachos together. The gooey cheese running off of your fingers, the refried beans dripping out the corner of your mouth, the slight shudder you make when you consume a jalapeno-it’s all absolutely disgusting. The gross factor is just too much for casual friends to handle. You know you’ve become good friends with someone when you can eat nachos with them. (I may be pushing the boundaries of that friendship with this characterization. Expected comments include: “Don’t you ever mention me and Mexican food in the same sentence ever again!” and “My boyfriend is coming over to beat you up.”)

I am reminded that it was eating nachos that got me where I am to begin with, so here’s to a 2007 with less nachos, and more rabid monkey exercising.

Case study: Bursting of an Ego

2006-12-31T20:08:00.000-05:00

Objective: To help two sets of friends move over a two-day period.

Method: Using dolly, truck, arms and manliness to move furniture and boxes.

Results: Initial boosting of ego on Day 1 and Day 2 was tragically burst at end of Day 2.

Discussion:

Day 1: Subject helps Friend A and her roommate move on Friday. Task is made easier because Friend A and roommate have already been moving things and are only moving up one floor in building. Subject displays usefulness by skillfully maneuvering boxes and boards on dolly. Subject helps Friend A put together bookshelf and sets up computer. Despite being mild physical labor, subject feels sense of accomplishment.

Results at end of day: despite only four hours of light physical labor, subject’s ego is suitably boosted. Subject leaves apartment feeling good about himself.

Day 2: Subject helps Friend B and his fiancé move across town on Saturday. Task is made complicated by fact that Friend B and fiancé haven’t finished packing. Subject decides to have a little bit of fun and volunteers to drive large U-Haul truck. Subject briefly wonders if he is trying to compensate for something, shakes head no, and then jumps in front seat.

Subject spends next nine hours driving truck all over town, engaging in heavy physical labor lifting sofas, bed frames, dressers and boxes. Subject is filled with great sense of accomplishment. Ego is heavily boosted, subject is the man! Before study can be finished Subject must drive Friend B back to pick up his vehicle. Subject talks friend up about “becoming a mover if this whole PR thing doesn’t work out” and even considers writing a blog about his moving prowess and mad truck driving skills.

Disaster. Subject is pulling into driveway to drop Friend B off. Subject takes turn too sharply and clips driver side taillight of Friend B’s Ford F-150. Clarification needed, Subject sheers cover of driver side taillight clean off. Subject’s ego and sense of importance deflates immediately. Subject filled with sense of horror.

Results at end of day: Subject owes $67 to Friend B for new taillight. Subject awaits merciless teasing at Friend B’s New Year’s Eve party.

Conclusion 1: If Subject couldn’t laugh at himself, Subject would go crazy.

Conclusion 2: Don’t ever let me, I mean Subject, near a U-Haul truck. Happy New Year ya’ll!