Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Over the Hill
I'm turning 28 this Saturday and I feel kind of bored by the whole thing.
When I was a kid, of course, birthdays were a definite cause for celebration, a chance to get new Transformers (I personally was a fan of the Decepticons), go roller skating, and eat ice cream cake. You got to decide who was cool enough to be invited (generally based on whether they had a subscription to Nintendo Power Magazine), at least until your mom made you invite everyone in your class, even Mark Rice who ate paste and smelled like potatoes. You got to stay up all night with your friends, watching Batman repeatedly and playing incredibly tame truth or dare and continually protesting to your long-suffering parents that you really weren't making that much noise. And everyone had to bring you a present, although some of them (mainly the ones from the super religious kids, let's be honest) were kind of lame.
In college, of course, the focus was on drinking, whether it was the Boone's Challenge -- to see how many bottles of wine product you could down in the fifteen minutes before midnight on your birthday eve -- or the more traditional Century Club. You would stagger across the campus making out with statuary and peeing at the slightest provocation, and your friends would laugh at you, with someone invariably taking pictures to remind you that, yes, you really did steal the "Women's Health Month" poster from the student center. That was kind of more than okay, too.
But after college the fun sort of takes a downturn. You end up throwing parties for yourself -- inviting classmates or neighbors you don't know all that well to meet you at a bar you don't like that much, or, God forbid, getting taken out by coworkers for the obligatory birthday lunch. Sometimes there are even evites involved.
So I've decided I'll ring this one in quietly. Just a few friends at my house, maybe, or dinner at a restaurant I actually like. God willing, there'll be cookie cake involved.
I'm turning 28 this Saturday and I feel kind of bored by the whole thing.
When I was a kid, of course, birthdays were a definite cause for celebration, a chance to get new Transformers (I personally was a fan of the Decepticons), go roller skating, and eat ice cream cake. You got to decide who was cool enough to be invited (generally based on whether they had a subscription to Nintendo Power Magazine), at least until your mom made you invite everyone in your class, even Mark Rice who ate paste and smelled like potatoes. You got to stay up all night with your friends, watching Batman repeatedly and playing incredibly tame truth or dare and continually protesting to your long-suffering parents that you really weren't making that much noise. And everyone had to bring you a present, although some of them (mainly the ones from the super religious kids, let's be honest) were kind of lame.
In college, of course, the focus was on drinking, whether it was the Boone's Challenge -- to see how many bottles of wine product you could down in the fifteen minutes before midnight on your birthday eve -- or the more traditional Century Club. You would stagger across the campus making out with statuary and peeing at the slightest provocation, and your friends would laugh at you, with someone invariably taking pictures to remind you that, yes, you really did steal the "Women's Health Month" poster from the student center. That was kind of more than okay, too.
But after college the fun sort of takes a downturn. You end up throwing parties for yourself -- inviting classmates or neighbors you don't know all that well to meet you at a bar you don't like that much, or, God forbid, getting taken out by coworkers for the obligatory birthday lunch. Sometimes there are even evites involved.
So I've decided I'll ring this one in quietly. Just a few friends at my house, maybe, or dinner at a restaurant I actually like. God willing, there'll be cookie cake involved.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Career Day
Spent yesterday at my law school's career conference. It's always kind of weird to be around young law students who are looking for jobs; it's a level of desperation just below reality show contestant but just above Sharon Stone. They seize upon anyone with a stack of business cards and a navy blue suit and start pretending to care about Federalism and continuing legal education with an almost surreal fervor. They spend hours listening just a little too attentively and laughing just a little too loudly to be believable, and then try to slip a resume into your portfolio while you're in the men's room. The problem, however, is the same as it always is -- firms would much rather hire a sociopath with cloven hooves and a law review editorship than a Nobel laureate who happened to get a C- in Property. I don't necessarily endorse that view, but at least until all the other lawyers at my firm are hit with scabies and I become hiring partner, I'm sort of stuck with it.
I did get to a bunch of mock interviews, however, which was sort of fun. I have had so many bizarre interview experiences that I was able to give the kids important tips like "don't stare at the incredibly lazy eye" and "don't interrupt if they go on forty minute talking jags about A Trial They Had Once in Maryland." I also gave them a little pep talk about how there are lots of places you really wouldn't want to work, anyway, and how rejection letters can be used as a cheap and efficient source of fuel. What can I say? I'm a helper.
Oh, and the Hawthorn Inn and Suites? Amazing. I'm a little skeptical of the designation "suite," since there was really only one big room with a sort of half wall next to the couch, but there was a large TV on a swivel stand and a kitchenette, which of course I didn't use, but slept easier knowing I had just in case guests should come by and a five-course meal should be required. And there WAS a free continental breakfast. A wafflemaker was involved.
Spent yesterday at my law school's career conference. It's always kind of weird to be around young law students who are looking for jobs; it's a level of desperation just below reality show contestant but just above Sharon Stone. They seize upon anyone with a stack of business cards and a navy blue suit and start pretending to care about Federalism and continuing legal education with an almost surreal fervor. They spend hours listening just a little too attentively and laughing just a little too loudly to be believable, and then try to slip a resume into your portfolio while you're in the men's room. The problem, however, is the same as it always is -- firms would much rather hire a sociopath with cloven hooves and a law review editorship than a Nobel laureate who happened to get a C- in Property. I don't necessarily endorse that view, but at least until all the other lawyers at my firm are hit with scabies and I become hiring partner, I'm sort of stuck with it.
I did get to a bunch of mock interviews, however, which was sort of fun. I have had so many bizarre interview experiences that I was able to give the kids important tips like "don't stare at the incredibly lazy eye" and "don't interrupt if they go on forty minute talking jags about A Trial They Had Once in Maryland." I also gave them a little pep talk about how there are lots of places you really wouldn't want to work, anyway, and how rejection letters can be used as a cheap and efficient source of fuel. What can I say? I'm a helper.
Oh, and the Hawthorn Inn and Suites? Amazing. I'm a little skeptical of the designation "suite," since there was really only one big room with a sort of half wall next to the couch, but there was a large TV on a swivel stand and a kitchenette, which of course I didn't use, but slept easier knowing I had just in case guests should come by and a five-course meal should be required. And there WAS a free continental breakfast. A wafflemaker was involved.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Freyed
Did everyone see Oprah bring out the frowny face yesterday for her full-on chastisement of fake memoir writer and book club whore James Frey? It was pretty ugly stuff, frankly. She didn't even get this upset with Tom Cruise tried to kill her. First she told him off herself and then she brought in a bunch of her weird friends to do it; by the end of the episode I felt like he was ready to confess that he had in fact never used anything stronger than Benadryl and that he had pieced together his book based on a brief interview with Keith Richards and several old episodes of She's the Sheriff. It was like Literary Smackdown! I think she should really make it a recurring series.
I have to say, though, I'm sort of enjoying this is a weird way. You see, for years I've kind of felt like writers ought to be in the business of, um, creating, instead of simply chronicling the wonderfulness of their own bizarre and fucked up lives on the page. Because to me the purpose of reading, rather than simply sitting down with a classic episode of The Simple Life, is that you're enjoying something that has been wholly imagined rather than simply documented. Shouldn't we be bothered that, as a nation, the "literature" that draws us in is that which recounts the true-life adventures of whatever meth addict/amputee/troglodyte is in fashion this week? And while, yes, lying is bad, if we're all this incensed that James Frey wasn't as much of a fuck-up as he claims to have been in his book, couldn't it be that maybe we weren't as completely overwhelmed by his art and artistry as we once claimed?
I don't think William Faulkner ever had this problem. No one was worried about whether he was actually an idiot gelding. People never faulted Virginia Woolf for not being as dark and weird as her writing made her seem. That's because they wrote fiction, and were proud of it. They weren't selling their life stories (as totally fascinating and scary as those may have been), they were selling their art. Or, correction, they really weren't selling at all.
Somebody's totally getting kicked out of the book club.
Did everyone see Oprah bring out the frowny face yesterday for her full-on chastisement of fake memoir writer and book club whore James Frey? It was pretty ugly stuff, frankly. She didn't even get this upset with Tom Cruise tried to kill her. First she told him off herself and then she brought in a bunch of her weird friends to do it; by the end of the episode I felt like he was ready to confess that he had in fact never used anything stronger than Benadryl and that he had pieced together his book based on a brief interview with Keith Richards and several old episodes of She's the Sheriff. It was like Literary Smackdown! I think she should really make it a recurring series.
I have to say, though, I'm sort of enjoying this is a weird way. You see, for years I've kind of felt like writers ought to be in the business of, um, creating, instead of simply chronicling the wonderfulness of their own bizarre and fucked up lives on the page. Because to me the purpose of reading, rather than simply sitting down with a classic episode of The Simple Life, is that you're enjoying something that has been wholly imagined rather than simply documented. Shouldn't we be bothered that, as a nation, the "literature" that draws us in is that which recounts the true-life adventures of whatever meth addict/amputee/troglodyte is in fashion this week? And while, yes, lying is bad, if we're all this incensed that James Frey wasn't as much of a fuck-up as he claims to have been in his book, couldn't it be that maybe we weren't as completely overwhelmed by his art and artistry as we once claimed?
I don't think William Faulkner ever had this problem. No one was worried about whether he was actually an idiot gelding. People never faulted Virginia Woolf for not being as dark and weird as her writing made her seem. That's because they wrote fiction, and were proud of it. They weren't selling their life stories (as totally fascinating and scary as those may have been), they were selling their art. Or, correction, they really weren't selling at all.
Somebody's totally getting kicked out of the book club.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Glasses Day
Went to The Green Mill with some friends last night. Although it is located farther north that I generally consider to be part of the city at all, I love The Green Mill for a number of reasons. First of all, they've got such great jazz that they can straightfacedly charge a $7 cover on a Wednesday night and never even bother to clean their bathrooms. They're real sticklers about the music, too -- they've got a huge guy with a handlebar moustache in all leather who threatens to cause you harm if you talk during the performance. Secondly, they've got cheap alcohol, to the point that they actually have both Schlitz and Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap, and refuse to apologize for it. It's the kind of place that probably offers generic brand gin. And then there's the atmosphere -- they claim that gangsters used to frequent the place in the '20s and '30s, and it doesn't really look like it's changed much since then. It's enough to make you feel like seriously evading your taxes.
It was a nice night, and kept me out much later than I generally intend on a school night, making today a full-on Glasses Day at work. (On a side note, I have definitely, definitely attended work at least one day this year wearing the same clothes as the day before, but with an added layer of smoke smell -- anyone who can identify that day wins what will undoubtedly be an exceedingly disappointing prize.) We played an incredibly juvenile game where we inserted the word "Vagina" into the titles of movies, and made inappropriate jokes about Baby Jessica. (Inappropriate mainly because they're so dated, not because there's anything wrong with mocking an injured child.) We made up interesting but assuredly untrue life stories for various people we spotted across the bar. And there were cheese fries involved, which for me is very close to nirvana.
There need to be more Glasses Days.
Went to The Green Mill with some friends last night. Although it is located farther north that I generally consider to be part of the city at all, I love The Green Mill for a number of reasons. First of all, they've got such great jazz that they can straightfacedly charge a $7 cover on a Wednesday night and never even bother to clean their bathrooms. They're real sticklers about the music, too -- they've got a huge guy with a handlebar moustache in all leather who threatens to cause you harm if you talk during the performance. Secondly, they've got cheap alcohol, to the point that they actually have both Schlitz and Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap, and refuse to apologize for it. It's the kind of place that probably offers generic brand gin. And then there's the atmosphere -- they claim that gangsters used to frequent the place in the '20s and '30s, and it doesn't really look like it's changed much since then. It's enough to make you feel like seriously evading your taxes.
It was a nice night, and kept me out much later than I generally intend on a school night, making today a full-on Glasses Day at work. (On a side note, I have definitely, definitely attended work at least one day this year wearing the same clothes as the day before, but with an added layer of smoke smell -- anyone who can identify that day wins what will undoubtedly be an exceedingly disappointing prize.) We played an incredibly juvenile game where we inserted the word "Vagina" into the titles of movies, and made inappropriate jokes about Baby Jessica. (Inappropriate mainly because they're so dated, not because there's anything wrong with mocking an injured child.) We made up interesting but assuredly untrue life stories for various people we spotted across the bar. And there were cheese fries involved, which for me is very close to nirvana.
There need to be more Glasses Days.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Not Necessarily the News
As work has come to be a larger and larger part of my life, I have become increasingly unaware of the news. As CNN and I were never the best of friends in the first place, my current events discourse has descended to the level of a third grader with a head wound and a copy of Weekly Reader.
For instance, today my excite news headline read "Hamas Doing Better than Expected in Vote." This caused me to wonder, at first, whether the American Idol season had progressed farther than I had initially thought. After remembering that Hamas was not, in fact, a spunky Latin American teen with an illegitimate daughter and a penchant for Celine Dion songs, I actually clicked on the article, but there weren't enough photographs to keep me going past the first paragraph. And the one picture they did have was of a guy sitting on the hood of a car. Did they get this story mixed up with the hardhitting one about senior portraits?
I do still see The Daily Show every now and then, but I always turn off the boring part with the interviews. I watch WGN in the morning, but that's just because I enjoy awkward banter and people who try too hard. And that's only if the Saved By the Bell is boring me. Oh, and sometimes I read the back of someone else's RedEye on the train. But that's usually just celebrity stuff, and I have a saying: if it's about Paris Hilton, it's not news.
Bill O'Reilly would be so disappointed in me.
As work has come to be a larger and larger part of my life, I have become increasingly unaware of the news. As CNN and I were never the best of friends in the first place, my current events discourse has descended to the level of a third grader with a head wound and a copy of Weekly Reader.
For instance, today my excite news headline read "Hamas Doing Better than Expected in Vote." This caused me to wonder, at first, whether the American Idol season had progressed farther than I had initially thought. After remembering that Hamas was not, in fact, a spunky Latin American teen with an illegitimate daughter and a penchant for Celine Dion songs, I actually clicked on the article, but there weren't enough photographs to keep me going past the first paragraph. And the one picture they did have was of a guy sitting on the hood of a car. Did they get this story mixed up with the hardhitting one about senior portraits?
I do still see The Daily Show every now and then, but I always turn off the boring part with the interviews. I watch WGN in the morning, but that's just because I enjoy awkward banter and people who try too hard. And that's only if the Saved By the Bell is boring me. Oh, and sometimes I read the back of someone else's RedEye on the train. But that's usually just celebrity stuff, and I have a saying: if it's about Paris Hilton, it's not news.
Bill O'Reilly would be so disappointed in me.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Trading Spaces
So I've started looking to buy a condo.
Not looking at actual condos, mind you -- I've only gotten as far as discussing my highly personal financial information (it's mainly my large investment in faberge eggs that embarrasses me) with a total stranger on the phone. This was a conversation in which I kept saying "Well, I really have no idea what I'm doing with this," so it was a lot of fun for both parties. Now I just have to fill out a bunch of paperwork carefully reporting the credit histories, hobbies, and bizarre sexual predilections of my three hundred closest relatives, and then they might let me look at the back porches of several shanties in Hobotown. It's really quite thrilling.
I've held out on the whole buying thing for a while now, mainly because I really love my apartment. Even if the closet doors won't close all the way and my landlord is dependably MIA, I have a roof deck and beautiful, huge windows, and I'm in no hurry to leave. But the image of me literally flushing money down the toilet has become more and more vivid as the years have gone by, and I just feel like the time has come.
Plus I really want to go gape at other people's homes. I think I'm going to put on a monocle and top hat and pretend I'm an eccentric billionaire looking for a new hedonistic pleasure palace. It'll be a stretch, but I bet I can pull it off.
So I've started looking to buy a condo.
Not looking at actual condos, mind you -- I've only gotten as far as discussing my highly personal financial information (it's mainly my large investment in faberge eggs that embarrasses me) with a total stranger on the phone. This was a conversation in which I kept saying "Well, I really have no idea what I'm doing with this," so it was a lot of fun for both parties. Now I just have to fill out a bunch of paperwork carefully reporting the credit histories, hobbies, and bizarre sexual predilections of my three hundred closest relatives, and then they might let me look at the back porches of several shanties in Hobotown. It's really quite thrilling.
I've held out on the whole buying thing for a while now, mainly because I really love my apartment. Even if the closet doors won't close all the way and my landlord is dependably MIA, I have a roof deck and beautiful, huge windows, and I'm in no hurry to leave. But the image of me literally flushing money down the toilet has become more and more vivid as the years have gone by, and I just feel like the time has come.
Plus I really want to go gape at other people's homes. I think I'm going to put on a monocle and top hat and pretend I'm an eccentric billionaire looking for a new hedonistic pleasure palace. It'll be a stretch, but I bet I can pull it off.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
TV Time
I finally caught up on my DVRs, and I have much to say.
First, how much does Santino need to get das boot on Project Runway? For his Jafar from Aladdin meets Robin Williams meets a serious conditioner shortage hair concoction alone. And then that "lingerie" that looked like a costume for the worst musical that Andrew Lloyd Webber never made? And the Sasha Cohen ostrich costume? Auf Wiedersehen, already.
And on a related note, how excited are we all for another Cohen/Kwan faceoff at the Olympics? Someone may seriously have to give me oxygen. The Kwan is one of the saddest figures in the history of anything.
Then there's LOST. Still love it, sure, but weren't The Others a little scarier before they were chatting it up with Jack and company? And, P.S., having a bad marriage doesn't count as a compelling backstory any more than having a distant, drunken father. Get in line, buddy.
And for some reason I'm still watching The OC. If ever there were a show that could stand to kill a character to move things along, this is it. Couldn't Johnny get impaled or something? Hitting him with an SUV was a good start, but you need to finish off the job.
I finally caught up on my DVRs, and I have much to say.
First, how much does Santino need to get das boot on Project Runway? For his Jafar from Aladdin meets Robin Williams meets a serious conditioner shortage hair concoction alone. And then that "lingerie" that looked like a costume for the worst musical that Andrew Lloyd Webber never made? And the Sasha Cohen ostrich costume? Auf Wiedersehen, already.
And on a related note, how excited are we all for another Cohen/Kwan faceoff at the Olympics? Someone may seriously have to give me oxygen. The Kwan is one of the saddest figures in the history of anything.
Then there's LOST. Still love it, sure, but weren't The Others a little scarier before they were chatting it up with Jack and company? And, P.S., having a bad marriage doesn't count as a compelling backstory any more than having a distant, drunken father. Get in line, buddy.
And for some reason I'm still watching The OC. If ever there were a show that could stand to kill a character to move things along, this is it. Couldn't Johnny get impaled or something? Hitting him with an SUV was a good start, but you need to finish off the job.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Matters of Concern
I worry that my Friendster life is growing stale.
I mean, sure, I have 133 friends, but how many of them are REALLY my friends? Would they be there for me if someone posted a scandalous shout out about me? Are they monitoring carefully for my birthday reminder to go off? Have they rated my photos?
And, okay, I have 17 testimonials, but do they contain enough superlatives? Do they make obscure pop cultural references? Are there enough comical misspellings to show they really come from the heart?
For God's sake, I haven't received a random message from a 43-year-old bass fishing enthusiast in months. And the friend requests from people I don't know in the Philippines have stopped altogether. Have things really gotten this bad?
I think I need some new photos, stat. I bet that one of me dressed up as "Slutty Martin Luther King, Jr." will do the trick.
I worry that my Friendster life is growing stale.
I mean, sure, I have 133 friends, but how many of them are REALLY my friends? Would they be there for me if someone posted a scandalous shout out about me? Are they monitoring carefully for my birthday reminder to go off? Have they rated my photos?
And, okay, I have 17 testimonials, but do they contain enough superlatives? Do they make obscure pop cultural references? Are there enough comical misspellings to show they really come from the heart?
For God's sake, I haven't received a random message from a 43-year-old bass fishing enthusiast in months. And the friend requests from people I don't know in the Philippines have stopped altogether. Have things really gotten this bad?
I think I need some new photos, stat. I bet that one of me dressed up as "Slutty Martin Luther King, Jr." will do the trick.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Conference Call
So I'm kind of pumped because my firm has asked me to go to my law school's career conference later this month. I'll get to hand out lots of my cute little off white embossed business cards (at least assuming I don't leave them in my desk drawer again) and wax poetic about the joys of the Erie doctrine and joint and several liability. They're going to let me be on a panel talking about judicial clerkships, which should be great so long as they understand that I fully intend to "work blue," and even do some mock interviews, where the emphasis will be strongly on "mock." I feel like I won't really be doing my job unless I make someone cry. Even if it's just one of the administrators there. Heck, if I get the director of career services, I feel like that should be worth extra points.
Law school was such a funny, miserable time for me. On the one hand, I was surrounded by such an amazing array of perfectly developed comic characters-- 25-year-old women who talked incessantly about horses; greasy, agoraphobic guys who talked about Federalism like it was a Hooters waitress they'd banged; career gals who managed to relate civil procedure to that time their boss as Shoe Carnival yelled at them for mislacing the L.A. Gears-- but on the other, I actually had to deal with those people on a day-to-day basis. Of course, I ended up making a lot of great friends there, but good lord the beginning was bumpy. And not just because they made us run an inflatable obstacle course during orientation.
Anyway, I get to stay at the Hawthorne Inn and Suites! How awesome is that? I bet they even have a free continental breakfast.
So I'm kind of pumped because my firm has asked me to go to my law school's career conference later this month. I'll get to hand out lots of my cute little off white embossed business cards (at least assuming I don't leave them in my desk drawer again) and wax poetic about the joys of the Erie doctrine and joint and several liability. They're going to let me be on a panel talking about judicial clerkships, which should be great so long as they understand that I fully intend to "work blue," and even do some mock interviews, where the emphasis will be strongly on "mock." I feel like I won't really be doing my job unless I make someone cry. Even if it's just one of the administrators there. Heck, if I get the director of career services, I feel like that should be worth extra points.
Law school was such a funny, miserable time for me. On the one hand, I was surrounded by such an amazing array of perfectly developed comic characters-- 25-year-old women who talked incessantly about horses; greasy, agoraphobic guys who talked about Federalism like it was a Hooters waitress they'd banged; career gals who managed to relate civil procedure to that time their boss as Shoe Carnival yelled at them for mislacing the L.A. Gears-- but on the other, I actually had to deal with those people on a day-to-day basis. Of course, I ended up making a lot of great friends there, but good lord the beginning was bumpy. And not just because they made us run an inflatable obstacle course during orientation.
Anyway, I get to stay at the Hawthorne Inn and Suites! How awesome is that? I bet they even have a free continental breakfast.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Classier and Classier
So yesterday I finally reached the point where I could no longer deny that I was out of clean underwear, and decided I should do a little laundry. I made my way down the treacherous Back Staircase of Doom (it's seriously at like a 45 degree angle from the building), past the Mean Girls with the Illegal Dog, and over to the Suddenly Coin-Operated Laundry Room, only to discover that it was locked. This was a problem for several reasons. First of all, it has never in the history of time been locked, and no one in our building has a key, although I have four keys that apparently go to nothing at all. Secondly, Liz had a load of laundry trapped in there, and while that's not necessarily on the scale of a baby down a well, it is just a little bit tragic. And finally, as I may have mentioned before, our building maintenance crew is essentially composed of dropouts from the English for Cabdrivers program, making it unlikely that any series of fragmentarily-shouted phone calls would yield any actual help on this issue.
So I decided to drive to the laundromat.
It's hard to decide what aspect of this particular trip was the most horrifying. It may have been the part when I dropped the laundry basket as I pulled it out of the trunk, scattering my soiled whites across the strip mall parking lot, including a sock that landed directly in the entryway of a Quiznos. It might have come when the laundromat attendant (which is now apparently a profession) chastised me for "using too much detergent." But if I had to pick, I guess I would choose the ten minute exchange about fabric softener I was nonconsentually involved in with the World's Oldest Woman who chose to rinse her dainties next to me. That provided enough horrifying imagery to haunt my dreams for a lifetime.
I think from now on, when my clothes get dirty, I will just replace them.
So yesterday I finally reached the point where I could no longer deny that I was out of clean underwear, and decided I should do a little laundry. I made my way down the treacherous Back Staircase of Doom (it's seriously at like a 45 degree angle from the building), past the Mean Girls with the Illegal Dog, and over to the Suddenly Coin-Operated Laundry Room, only to discover that it was locked. This was a problem for several reasons. First of all, it has never in the history of time been locked, and no one in our building has a key, although I have four keys that apparently go to nothing at all. Secondly, Liz had a load of laundry trapped in there, and while that's not necessarily on the scale of a baby down a well, it is just a little bit tragic. And finally, as I may have mentioned before, our building maintenance crew is essentially composed of dropouts from the English for Cabdrivers program, making it unlikely that any series of fragmentarily-shouted phone calls would yield any actual help on this issue.
So I decided to drive to the laundromat.
It's hard to decide what aspect of this particular trip was the most horrifying. It may have been the part when I dropped the laundry basket as I pulled it out of the trunk, scattering my soiled whites across the strip mall parking lot, including a sock that landed directly in the entryway of a Quiznos. It might have come when the laundromat attendant (which is now apparently a profession) chastised me for "using too much detergent." But if I had to pick, I guess I would choose the ten minute exchange about fabric softener I was nonconsentually involved in with the World's Oldest Woman who chose to rinse her dainties next to me. That provided enough horrifying imagery to haunt my dreams for a lifetime.
I think from now on, when my clothes get dirty, I will just replace them.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Karaoke Party 2000!!!!
My friend Chrissy had a birthday party last night at Parrot's Bar and Grill, which is possibly the finest bar in Chicago. They have $6 pitchers and free popcorn, and a back room that looks like your parents' basement. (Since most people learn how to drink in someone's parents' basement, it's a pretty comfortable feel.) There's wood paneling everywhere, and an occasionally functional electric dart machine. In short, it is the perfect place for a very special celebration.
Chrissy and Grant cut the birthday cake, which is of course a Baskin Robbins creation. It's sort of hard to see here, but it has a picture of an anorexic unicorn on it. They're so much prettier when you can see their ribs.
Special occasions call for cheap cigars. Here, Caitlin enjoys secondhand smoking my Swisher Sweet, which I am still tasting today.
I also got to wear a party hat. In this picture, it looks like I am strangling Roommate Liz. Although I was upset about our inability to perform "I've Had The Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing, I did not in fact express my feelings through violence.
What would a birthday be without a little synchronized dancing? Very sad, that's what.
Kristen takes the karaoke mic for a stirring performance that earned her a score of 87, a full six points better than my rendition of "The Greatest Love of All." Obviously, the scoring was deeply, deeply racist.
My friend Chrissy had a birthday party last night at Parrot's Bar and Grill, which is possibly the finest bar in Chicago. They have $6 pitchers and free popcorn, and a back room that looks like your parents' basement. (Since most people learn how to drink in someone's parents' basement, it's a pretty comfortable feel.) There's wood paneling everywhere, and an occasionally functional electric dart machine. In short, it is the perfect place for a very special celebration.
Chrissy and Grant cut the birthday cake, which is of course a Baskin Robbins creation. It's sort of hard to see here, but it has a picture of an anorexic unicorn on it. They're so much prettier when you can see their ribs.
Special occasions call for cheap cigars. Here, Caitlin enjoys secondhand smoking my Swisher Sweet, which I am still tasting today.
I also got to wear a party hat. In this picture, it looks like I am strangling Roommate Liz. Although I was upset about our inability to perform "I've Had The Time of My Life" from Dirty Dancing, I did not in fact express my feelings through violence.
What would a birthday be without a little synchronized dancing? Very sad, that's what.
Kristen takes the karaoke mic for a stirring performance that earned her a score of 87, a full six points better than my rendition of "The Greatest Love of All." Obviously, the scoring was deeply, deeply racist.Friday, January 13, 2006
Double Super Secret
Have you ever have someone swear you to the utmost secrecy about something that is so uninteresting you wouldn't tell it to Al Gore on Tax Day in DesMoines, IA? For instance, Cindy from your office makes you PROMISE not to tell Danny from your pottery class that her friend Kelly from Grover Cleveland Middle School can't eat dairy? Or your dad stresses with utmost gravity that you mustn't tell anyone, no matter how strong the temptation, that Globomaxx is considering a merger with Intertron? Conveyed as they inevitably are with the utmost sincerity, these impassioned exhortions invariably make me want to spit chocolate YooHoo out my nose with laughter.
For the record, here are some things that would ACTUALLY be compelling secrets:
-- You caught the boss doing a line of coke off a hooker's ass.
-- You found weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, and are keeping them in a storage locker in Skokie.
-- Ellen is having your baby.
-- You are the one who "put the bop in the bop sh bop sh bop."
-- You don't hate Carson Daly.
So maybe don't whip out your hushed tone and squinched up secret face unless it's a special occasion, okay?
Have you ever have someone swear you to the utmost secrecy about something that is so uninteresting you wouldn't tell it to Al Gore on Tax Day in DesMoines, IA? For instance, Cindy from your office makes you PROMISE not to tell Danny from your pottery class that her friend Kelly from Grover Cleveland Middle School can't eat dairy? Or your dad stresses with utmost gravity that you mustn't tell anyone, no matter how strong the temptation, that Globomaxx is considering a merger with Intertron? Conveyed as they inevitably are with the utmost sincerity, these impassioned exhortions invariably make me want to spit chocolate YooHoo out my nose with laughter.
For the record, here are some things that would ACTUALLY be compelling secrets:
-- You caught the boss doing a line of coke off a hooker's ass.
-- You found weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, and are keeping them in a storage locker in Skokie.
-- Ellen is having your baby.
-- You are the one who "put the bop in the bop sh bop sh bop."
-- You don't hate Carson Daly.
So maybe don't whip out your hushed tone and squinched up secret face unless it's a special occasion, okay?
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Up, Down, and Around Town
-- The Alito Confirmation Hearings. I feel like I should be buying insurance from this guy, not listening to him dodge any question more probing than "can you please state your name?"
-- Brokeback Mountain. Proof that America is ready to embrace a movie about gay men. So long as they're gay men who suffer a lot and have sex with women.
-- Better Living Through Chemistry. Yesterday I vigorously applied a moisturizer to which I appear to be allergic. The afternoon of swelling and changing colors was both fun and productive, however.
-- Year End Best-Of Lists. The perfect opportunity to show everyone how much smarter you are than them. Make sure to include that Serbian short film about the blind manicurist who becomes addicted to Scrabble.
-- Glasses Days. The best barometer for everyone at my office as to what kind of night I had the night before. I'm not saying eyewear equals debauchery, but I did stay up pretty late watching that Abdomenizer infomercial last night.
-- Angelina Jolie's Pregnancy. At this rate she'll be able to set up her own mini-UN of children, only 25% more effective than the real UN!
-- The Alito Confirmation Hearings. I feel like I should be buying insurance from this guy, not listening to him dodge any question more probing than "can you please state your name?"
-- Brokeback Mountain. Proof that America is ready to embrace a movie about gay men. So long as they're gay men who suffer a lot and have sex with women.
-- Better Living Through Chemistry. Yesterday I vigorously applied a moisturizer to which I appear to be allergic. The afternoon of swelling and changing colors was both fun and productive, however.
-- Year End Best-Of Lists. The perfect opportunity to show everyone how much smarter you are than them. Make sure to include that Serbian short film about the blind manicurist who becomes addicted to Scrabble.
-- Glasses Days. The best barometer for everyone at my office as to what kind of night I had the night before. I'm not saying eyewear equals debauchery, but I did stay up pretty late watching that Abdomenizer infomercial last night.
-- Angelina Jolie's Pregnancy. At this rate she'll be able to set up her own mini-UN of children, only 25% more effective than the real UN!
Sunday, January 08, 2006
On the General Decline of Things
Roommate Liz and I haven't been home a whole awful lot in the past few weeks, and our apartment is slowly but surely turning into an opium den. I feel like we may need to hire a housekeeper, preferably one who is magic and sings.
We have remote controls everywhere, and yet none of them serves to turn on the television. Some of them don't seem to turn on anything at all.
There is a jar of laxative sitting on one of our living room chairs. How it got there or who felt the need "bring their own party," we will never know.
My plant is apparently trying to kill itself, despite my pencil-involving intervention attempts. The potting soil habit can be a truly cruel one.
And, perhaps most classily, we have garbage in our back hallway. Thank God for the careful stacking; otherwise we might really seem to be filthy.
Roommate Liz and I haven't been home a whole awful lot in the past few weeks, and our apartment is slowly but surely turning into an opium den. I feel like we may need to hire a housekeeper, preferably one who is magic and sings.
We have remote controls everywhere, and yet none of them serves to turn on the television. Some of them don't seem to turn on anything at all.
There is a jar of laxative sitting on one of our living room chairs. How it got there or who felt the need "bring their own party," we will never know.
My plant is apparently trying to kill itself, despite my pencil-involving intervention attempts. The potting soil habit can be a truly cruel one.
And, perhaps most classily, we have garbage in our back hallway. Thank God for the careful stacking; otherwise we might really seem to be filthy.Saturday, January 07, 2006
On the Record
I've spent the last couple of days learning how to take depositions, and can I just say that it is so super fun? It's just like having a conversation, except the person you're talking to really resents being there and someone is typing up everything you say. (I used to employ a court reporter to transcribe my various witty remarks on a day-to-day basis, but the cost-to-wit ratio wasn't particularly the strongest.) You can ask painfully intrusive questions, and sometimes the witnesses wear amusing sparkly turtlenecks. It's kind of my goal to make a witness cry. How sweet would that be? Maybe if I tell that twenty-five minute story about the time in fourth grade when I got lost in the First Ladies' Gowns Exhibit at the Smithsonian. I thought the Lynda Bird Johnson mannequin was my mom.
I think if I got to choose three people to depose (in the legal sense, not the streets-running-red-with-the-blood-of-the-oppressor sense) I would choose Gandhi, Julia Roberts, and Jesus. Julia Roberts of course for that famous smile. And who wouldn't want to talk to the star of Mary Reilly and America's Sweethearts? Gandhi would of course be for his amazing diet secrets, because swimsuit season is just around the corner, you know? And Jesus just kind of seems like he'd be cool. Along as you keep him away from nails and a cross! What a total Debbie Downer.
I've spent the last couple of days learning how to take depositions, and can I just say that it is so super fun? It's just like having a conversation, except the person you're talking to really resents being there and someone is typing up everything you say. (I used to employ a court reporter to transcribe my various witty remarks on a day-to-day basis, but the cost-to-wit ratio wasn't particularly the strongest.) You can ask painfully intrusive questions, and sometimes the witnesses wear amusing sparkly turtlenecks. It's kind of my goal to make a witness cry. How sweet would that be? Maybe if I tell that twenty-five minute story about the time in fourth grade when I got lost in the First Ladies' Gowns Exhibit at the Smithsonian. I thought the Lynda Bird Johnson mannequin was my mom.
I think if I got to choose three people to depose (in the legal sense, not the streets-running-red-with-the-blood-of-the-oppressor sense) I would choose Gandhi, Julia Roberts, and Jesus. Julia Roberts of course for that famous smile. And who wouldn't want to talk to the star of Mary Reilly and America's Sweethearts? Gandhi would of course be for his amazing diet secrets, because swimsuit season is just around the corner, you know? And Jesus just kind of seems like he'd be cool. Along as you keep him away from nails and a cross! What a total Debbie Downer.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
High Resolution
Is there anything more pathetically hilarious than the New Year's resolution? Except maybe Nicole Richie? (Whose name I am shocked to discover I have already previously googled.) It's fascinating to me that people actually choose to begin their new years by reminding themselves of all the things they don't like about themselves. They're unhappy with their jobs, which is to say they have jobs. They need to lose one hundred and seventy pounds, Lindsay Lohan style. They haven't made nearly enough progress on that spice rack they're building for grandma. Every year, it's like America suddenly becomes that table in the junior high school cafeteria where all the girls with low self esteem sit, staring forlornly into their snack size cups of vanilla yogurt while writing in their unicorn-embossed diaries with their glitter pens.
So I'm going to start out my new year (well, sort of -- obviously I never made that resolution to be more punctual!) by picking out some key respects in which I resolve NOT to change. It should be easier, and more in keeping with what Karen Larson wrote in my high school yearbook. ("Stay sweet! Keep strummin' that violin and don't ever change!")
For starters, I resolve to NOT become more technologically savvy. Nobody likes that guy who's always talking about dos. The only necessary computer skills involve picking up the phone to get the pale dude with the Lord of the Rings t-shirt to come down and make your Ashlee Simpson songs download correctly.
I resolve to remain every bit as occasionally mean spirited as I am. Come on, sometimes Celine Dion has it coming. That bitch has been skeletal and Canadian for years.
I resolve to keep on talking about things that interest me without regard to whether anyone cares to hear it. For one thing, it's fun just to watch people's eyes glaze over as I tear into my fourth virtually pause free hour on synchronic linguistics. Eventually, security is called.
I also resolve to NOT work any harder. What am I, a four year old in a Malaysian Nike factory?
And I think that's just about enough of that...
Is there anything more pathetically hilarious than the New Year's resolution? Except maybe Nicole Richie? (Whose name I am shocked to discover I have already previously googled.) It's fascinating to me that people actually choose to begin their new years by reminding themselves of all the things they don't like about themselves. They're unhappy with their jobs, which is to say they have jobs. They need to lose one hundred and seventy pounds, Lindsay Lohan style. They haven't made nearly enough progress on that spice rack they're building for grandma. Every year, it's like America suddenly becomes that table in the junior high school cafeteria where all the girls with low self esteem sit, staring forlornly into their snack size cups of vanilla yogurt while writing in their unicorn-embossed diaries with their glitter pens.
So I'm going to start out my new year (well, sort of -- obviously I never made that resolution to be more punctual!) by picking out some key respects in which I resolve NOT to change. It should be easier, and more in keeping with what Karen Larson wrote in my high school yearbook. ("Stay sweet! Keep strummin' that violin and don't ever change!")
For starters, I resolve to NOT become more technologically savvy. Nobody likes that guy who's always talking about dos. The only necessary computer skills involve picking up the phone to get the pale dude with the Lord of the Rings t-shirt to come down and make your Ashlee Simpson songs download correctly.
I resolve to remain every bit as occasionally mean spirited as I am. Come on, sometimes Celine Dion has it coming. That bitch has been skeletal and Canadian for years.
I resolve to keep on talking about things that interest me without regard to whether anyone cares to hear it. For one thing, it's fun just to watch people's eyes glaze over as I tear into my fourth virtually pause free hour on synchronic linguistics. Eventually, security is called.
I also resolve to NOT work any harder. What am I, a four year old in a Malaysian Nike factory?
And I think that's just about enough of that...
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
What Dreams May Come
I had a dream last night that I was in a celebrity hot dog eating contest. Pierce Brosnan was in it (classy), and Gwyneth Paltrow (?), and Star Jones (natch). I was a fairly good bet to place despite choking on some sauerkraut early on, but even in the dream I kept thinking "Why am I in a celebrity hot dog eating contest? I haven't even been locally famous since I quit that kids' news show in the 9th grade. And why is Betty White eating footlongs like it's her job?"
I think I need to stop eating right before bed. Or maybe it's the tequila shooters, who knows?
Real life has been considerably less interesting. I have just been officially subjected to the delightful concept known as billable hours, which means that I now hesitate to breathe unless it can be charged directly to a client. Lunch with friends, hours of carefree blogging, quick trips to Walgreens to replace the kiwi-flavored chapstick I accidentally bought --things that were formerly fun distractions are now filthy little time thieves. The one positive thing is that it's much easier to see how you're wasting your life when you break it up into tenth-of-an-hour segments.
All right, I've got a lot of serious thinking to do. Thinking in the tub with the toaster.
I had a dream last night that I was in a celebrity hot dog eating contest. Pierce Brosnan was in it (classy), and Gwyneth Paltrow (?), and Star Jones (natch). I was a fairly good bet to place despite choking on some sauerkraut early on, but even in the dream I kept thinking "Why am I in a celebrity hot dog eating contest? I haven't even been locally famous since I quit that kids' news show in the 9th grade. And why is Betty White eating footlongs like it's her job?"
I think I need to stop eating right before bed. Or maybe it's the tequila shooters, who knows?
Real life has been considerably less interesting. I have just been officially subjected to the delightful concept known as billable hours, which means that I now hesitate to breathe unless it can be charged directly to a client. Lunch with friends, hours of carefree blogging, quick trips to Walgreens to replace the kiwi-flavored chapstick I accidentally bought --things that were formerly fun distractions are now filthy little time thieves. The one positive thing is that it's much easier to see how you're wasting your life when you break it up into tenth-of-an-hour segments.
All right, I've got a lot of serious thinking to do. Thinking in the tub with the toaster.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Nappy New Year
What is it about New Year's Day that makes me so lethargic? And no, it's not a hangover, although two years ago I did make the brilliant decision to go to IKEA hungover on New Year's Day and had to resist a strong urge to impale myself on a Kvartil. But whether my drinking has been moderate or Minnelliesque, I tend to find myself very much interested in reality television marathons and the surface of my living room couch as each progressive year begins. (This year I spent a good ten minutes of my Project Runway fixation wondering stupidly if very pregnant Heidi Klum had "really let herself go.") I sit there looking as though an Old Navy has thrown up on me and wondering if there's anything in the cabinets that might make the long, cold trip to the kitchen worthwhile, before realizing that my cabinets haven't contained more than a container of wasabi-flavored nuts that I'm sure I didn't buy and would never eat and a rather messy honey spill for months. Suffice it to say that my elaborate dinner parties with Judi Dench and the folks from The McLaughlin Group ended years ago.
What makes all of this even more odd is that I generally hate to sit still. I'm the guy who has to drum his fingers on the desk while he reads in order to stay conscious and focused and who has become familiar to state troopers everywhere through his habit of doing at least six things while driving. Sometimes during parties I randomly offer to race people. (Usually girls, and I always win.) But every year on January 1 it's like I become someone else for a day. It would take a demolition crew or a particularly chatty Barbara Walters to drive me from my home.
But regardless, I think it's lovely just to be alive and at least mildly sentient for another year. I'm excited to see what horrific new political machinations and celebrity hookups 2006 will bring.
What is it about New Year's Day that makes me so lethargic? And no, it's not a hangover, although two years ago I did make the brilliant decision to go to IKEA hungover on New Year's Day and had to resist a strong urge to impale myself on a Kvartil. But whether my drinking has been moderate or Minnelliesque, I tend to find myself very much interested in reality television marathons and the surface of my living room couch as each progressive year begins. (This year I spent a good ten minutes of my Project Runway fixation wondering stupidly if very pregnant Heidi Klum had "really let herself go.") I sit there looking as though an Old Navy has thrown up on me and wondering if there's anything in the cabinets that might make the long, cold trip to the kitchen worthwhile, before realizing that my cabinets haven't contained more than a container of wasabi-flavored nuts that I'm sure I didn't buy and would never eat and a rather messy honey spill for months. Suffice it to say that my elaborate dinner parties with Judi Dench and the folks from The McLaughlin Group ended years ago.
What makes all of this even more odd is that I generally hate to sit still. I'm the guy who has to drum his fingers on the desk while he reads in order to stay conscious and focused and who has become familiar to state troopers everywhere through his habit of doing at least six things while driving. Sometimes during parties I randomly offer to race people. (Usually girls, and I always win.) But every year on January 1 it's like I become someone else for a day. It would take a demolition crew or a particularly chatty Barbara Walters to drive me from my home.
But regardless, I think it's lovely just to be alive and at least mildly sentient for another year. I'm excited to see what horrific new political machinations and celebrity hookups 2006 will bring.
