"Moose Out Front Shoulda Told Ya..."

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What Would I Say To You Now?

Over the past six months, I've undergone some pretty drastic changes. I've moved to a new city, started a new and totally unfamiliar job, and began in earnest the process of trying to piece together what exactly this crazy life of mine is going to look like.

As time has gone on, I've had to make some pretty important decisions regarding what things will stay in my life and what will be jettisoned. It's a process that I took on with trepidation but am now pleased to say has turned out remarkably well. For the first time in a really long time, I'm happy with things. It's not all looking exactly like I wished it would, but I am legitimately and seriously happy.

Back when I first started A Rapturous Verbatim--a blog whose title has, I've come to realize, been laughably ironic--I was not so much on the happy side. I was in the midst of my junior year at Princeton, and things were beginning to get a bit on the dicey side with the onset of my independent work. (I never did regale my faithful audience with the story of how I got the nickname "Fastest Thesis in the West," did I? Another time, perhaps.) I wasn't doing anything creative, and I wanted to have something just for me, something I could enjoy and create.

And, if you'll recall, in my very first post, I made what in hindsight is a stunning declaration:

I can't promise everything that ends up here will be polished or even fun to read. I can't promise that my ranting will go anywhere, that any ideas I come up with will ever come to fruition, or that anything I write here will make any sense.

How about that, huh?

It's funny the way things turn out. Before too long, I'd begun treating ARV like a clearinghouse for my most profound and well-reasoned ideas. It was a place to go to do seriously, thoughtful writing. It was an opportunity for me to take an idea and draw it out to its fullest without feeling the obligations of academic discourse.

It was also, ultimately, depressing as hell.

If you look back, you'll notice that within the first couple of months, I wrote not one but two posts declaring fresh starts. (That's right. Two fresh starts in the first four months. A real winner I had on my hands.) And even worse than that, most of the material in there was simply me bitching about how I haven't done enough writing lately.

As it turns out, that's still a legit problem. But over the last four years, I've discovered that whining about your problems doesn't actually, you know, fix them.

Fortunately for my faithful reading audience--and really, you guys are troopers--I figured all this out a couple of years ago. And so my response was to start up a new blog, one that would allow me to be a little lighter, more amusing, less polished (again), and more off-the-cuff. I launched A Tournament of Lies thinking that the two blogs would play off of each other but develop organically. I'd originally envisioned 1-2 posts per week on ARV and 3-4 posts per week (if not more) on AToL. I'd figured on it being a good way to showcase the two sides of my personality.

But, as I've said a few times already, things changed. Things have been changing. And to quote an old song by Mary-Chapin Carpenter (born in Princeton, no less!), "The old way isn't working anymore." As I've become less, shall we say, miserable, I've been neglecting ARV. (Or populating it with mostly book reviews, which it turns out not everyone digs.) All because I felt the blog had pigeonholed itself into a particular voice or style. And while my early AToL posts were fresh and funny, I've been noticing the same things happening over there lately too.

The straw came with my two latest AToL posts. I started by telling what I thought was a silly story--the kind of thing I'd originally intended the blog to do--but I realized that the story was getting more out of hand than I'd expected, for two reasons: a) it was running far longer than I thought it would (I do have a tendency to do that...), and b) it was less silly funny than sardonically funny, way darker than it seemed when I conceived the idea of writing it down (I tend to do that too, actually...).

Don't get me wrong: I think the story was totally worth sharing. But it didn't seem to fit the venue. It was too funny to be posted on ARV, and too dark to be posted on AToL.

Well damn it, now what?

My solution in the past had been to create a new blog, but we see how well that's worked out. I've run into the same problem again, where my style and tone have shifted so much that the things I'm writing don't seem to fit the molds that have been defined by what came before. It felt, I realized, like when I decided that it was time to abandon my old childish, immature Xanga from high school (which is still hanging around there somewhere on the Internet, if you go dig it out) in favor of what I perceived would be a fresh, mature perspective.

And now, dear readers, that time has come again.

I've come to the conclusion that A Rapturous Verbatim and A Tournament of Lies, fascinating and not-totally-ill-advised experiments that they were, have run their life spans to the end. After just over 100 posts on each, I just don't see how I can, in my present state, sustain these two blogs anymore and have them function the way I'd planned--or, rather, the way they've turned out. So the time has come to shut the door for good.

With the exception of one last forthcoming post, this will be the final entry posted on either of these two blogs.

Rest assured that I'm not dropping out of the blogging game. I've been hard at work over the past few days crafting the beginnings of a new, stripped-down project, one that I hope will better reflect me and my daily life and the things I want to write down and share with the world. My goal is to have it be devoid of the kind of defining characteristics that ended up strangling these two blogs as the years have gone on. But time will tell, I suppose.

So really, I'm seeing this as nothing more than the beginning of a new chapter. I have no intentions of taking down the blogs, since I feel strongly about keeping them intact as a landmark of a very specific period of my life. But the fact is, that period is over, and the time has come to move on and start fresh. There's more to say, just nothing more to say here.

Full details will be posted here when the new project is ready for primetime. Until then, thanks for indulging me around these parts for the past few years, and I hope you'll follow along to the new joint and keep up with things.

What would I say to you now? You'll just have to wait and find out.

Helmet Cup de Grace, Part Two

In yesterday's post, I told the epic tale of my epic fail to turn lemons into lemonade during a 14-hour layover in Minneapolis. But this was only the tip of the iceberg, the Thursday night of a long Friday-to-Monday holiday weekend. Allow me to regale you now with the rest of the story.

4:15am. A full 15 minutes before my wake-up call, I was wide awake in bed. It was just as dark out as it was when I'd gone to sleep. And I was just as famished. (And no, 4:15am Central Daylight Time is no easier than 4:15am Eastern. It's an ungodly hour no matter what time zone you're in.)

On the upside, once seated on the plane, I closed my eyes just before the flight attendants began their safety spiel. And when I opened them? The wheels were touching the tarmac at O'Hare. Now that is what I'd call an unmitigated success. From there, all that was left was to get the rental car and trek the three hours south to Decatur.

(Let me spare you the details of that part of the story. I'll sum it up in one word: corn. Lots and lots of corn. And when the corn gets boring, you can always entertain yourself by scrolling through the radio dial and trying to find Lady Gaga amidst the Christian rock and preachers. You'd be amazed how entertaining that can be.)

Once in Decatur, things really did start to pick up. Having met the wedding party in Denver for the bachelor party, I knew they'd all be stand-up guys. And with a rehearsal dinner at a combination bar-and-bowling alley, what could go wrong?

Try having there be only one operating lane. And that lane hasn't been oiled in, oh, seven years at least. So much for that.

But really, though I'm being cynical, Friday was fun. I bailed early from the after-party on account of my exhaustion, figuring that I could get some extra rest and make Saturday count. And boy, did I ever.

(Fun fact: when you're in the guys' side of the wedding party, you get to hang out, watch sports, and order subs in the hours just before the ceremony. The ladies were insanely jealous when we told them this story. Just one of the perks of having a penis, kids.)

As for the wedding, it was spectacular. Bride and groom were beautiful, the pictures were entertaining, and the reception was off-the-chain. I know this because I woke up the next morning with a hangover the likes of which I have rarely experienced. It was so worth it.

But unfortunately, this meant a super-slow start to my day. A day that I had planned to spend sightseeing in Chicago. But since I wasn't going to be at 100% until much later than I'd planned, I decided to give up on all the sightseeing and focus exclusively on one thing: getting a burger at Kuma's Corner.

(I don't need to tell you about Kuma's. Just check out the menu on the Web site. FOODGASM TO THE MAX.)

When I finally left around 3:00pm CDT, I knew I'd be arriving in Chicago right around dinner time. And I was anticipating a super-long wait. All of which, naturally, had my stomach growling.

Finally I pulled up to building, and managed to luckily find a spot right up front! And only two kids waiting outside! It was almost too good to be true!

Except...um...it was.

Kuma's was closed. For July 4th.

Now, I know what you're wondering. Hey asshole, how'd you forget it was July 4th?! To which I answer: easily. Because it was on Sunday, the Federal holiday fell on Monday, and that was my day off of work. So I had conditioned myself to believe that the 4th was on Monday.

And with this, my spirit was officially defeated. But, just like in Minneapolis, karma wasn't through with me yet. Here's what else happened in the 24 hours before I finally landed again in Washington:

• Let's start with the fact that I decided to go right to the hotel (which was a mile from O'Hare) rather than drop my rental car off, save a few bucks, and take advantage of the complimentary hotel airport shuttle. So instead of saving maybe $50-ish, I spent an extra $22 to park the car in the garage overnight. Ugh.
• I had a marvelous hotel for the night, and the woman at the front desk told me I had a "city view" room, so I might be able to see the fireworks. Upon entering my room, I opened the shades and saw...trees. It took me three minutes to find the city skyline--and by "city skyline," I mean "the very tippy top of the Sears Tower, the only building visible."
  • Sub-item: Fuck Willis. It will always be the Sears Tower.
• The only restaurants at this hotel were The Capital Grille and McCormick & Schmick's, both way too upscale for me. So I opted to order a room service salad and burger for $33. And only after it arrived did I do some research and learn that McCormick & Schmick's has a bar menu...featuring a half-pound burger for $2.95. MONEY SAVING FAIL.
• While I did see the fireworks from my window (all two hours of them), I decided I needed to get to bed. Which was easy enough. But you know what's challenging? Getting back to sleep when you're woken up at 2:00am by some drunk/angry/who knows? guy in the hallway pounding on a nearby door over and over and over again and screaming, "Debbie! Hey Debbie! Debbie, let me in! Hey Debbie!"
  • Sub-item: Should I have called the front desk? Probably. But at the moment, I'd figured my only recourse was to go out there myself. And frankly, I wasn't prepared to walk into what I was sure was a domestic-dispute-waiting-to-happen.
• And just when it should have been all over, I got on the plane to Detroit, my layover, and quickly learned the hour in the air would pass with a young girl behind me, kicking my seat and shrieking and howling in Spanish the whole. damn. flight. And, even better, that her mother was either mute, indifferent, or both. Puta.

I mean, let's face it. When a three-hour layover in Detroit is the highlight of your day, you know you're in trouble. But then, I was in trouble, on account of the fact that I realized, an hour before takeoff, that I had no ride home from the airport.

What more, karma? What more?!

Fortunately, for once that weekend, my luck turned. I was saved by my good friend Alicia, who graciously offered to transport me from National back to my home. (Thanks, 'leesh!) By the time my plane landed, the last snag had been unhooked. All that was left was to walk into the house, drop my crap on the floor, and face-plant on my sweet, glorious, horribly missed bed.

I mean, don't get me wrong. The weekend wasn't all that bad. But it's certainly given me something to think about next time a destination wedding invite arrives in my mailbox.

And to think, it all started with that darn helmet cup...

Helmet Cup de Grace, Part One

One week ago at this time, I was in Decatur, IL, the soybean capital of the world (I kid you not). What brought me to such a corny, open place was the wedding of a good friend, a man in whose companionship I had the privilege of spending almost all my primary education. The ceremony was beautiful, the reception was a hoot, and the company I met were super friendly and engaging. All told, mission accomplished.

Of course, as you may have deduced, this was the weekend of the Fourth of July, and with four days free and only two days of obligations for the wedding, I decided to be a little ambitious and add some fun times into the mix.

(And by "add some fun times into the mix," I mean, "make up for the fact that I stupidly didn't realize my flight to Chicago went through Minneapolis and left me with a 14-hour layover since I can't read "pm" and "am" correctly. I suck.)

So, being in Minneapolis from 5:30pm until 7:00am, I decided I needed to make the most of this. (A wise choice, as it turns out, because if I'd been stuck in the hotel I chose for the whole time, I'd have gone blind from the utterly garish combination of aqua blue walls, sunflower yellow comforter, and orange shag carpeting.) After a little research, I discovered two solid stops that were reasonable enough to make: a hamburger joint called The 5-8 Club that serves a burger called the Juicy Lucy, a Minneapolis specialty; and, of course, a stop at Target Field to see a Twins game and visit my 16th Major League ballpark.

At the start, the plan looked good: arrive at 5:30pm, complimentary shuttle to the hotel to drop off my bags and check in, shuttle back to the airport, light rail to the ballpark for the 7:05pm start, watch the game, get my obligatory helmet cup, light rail back to the airport, taxi to The 5-8 Club (which closes at midnight), get my burger, taxi back to the hotel, and sleep until I needed to get to the airport around 5:30am. I'm sure I'd be exhausted, but it'd be so worth it, no?

Well, funny story...

Everything went swimmingly until I got to the park. Don't get me wrong: Target Field is super nice. I'd never been to the Metrodome, but just passing it on the way there in the light rail, I got the sense it's not nearly as grand as it appears on TV. Plus, outdoor parks always trump the indoor places, if for no other reason than the views. And though I was seated in literally the top row of the stadium, the field did not look too miniscule, and the straight-ahead view was pretty spectacular:



By the 4th inning, I was itching to accomplish my helmet cup goal, so I alighted from my seat, the Twins ahead 2-0 behind Carl Pavano (!) and his superb pitching (!!), and began to make my way towards the long-lined ice cream stand.

Then, as I was next in line, disaster struck. I overheard the server telling the woman in front of me that, alas, there were no helmet cups. (Shock.) Then, an even more dastardly twist: they were shipping in from China and had gotten held up at the port. So there might not be any in the stadium at all. (Horror.)

Believe me, my friends, I left no stone unturned. I left the line and walked through every. concourse. in. the. stadium. looking for a stand that had helmet cups. All four levels, two laps each. Plenty of time to observe that, while the park is sleek and nice and has some interesting Minneapolis touches, the walkways distinctly felt like...well...being inside a Target store. (Still not sure how I feel about that.) But most importantly, I had run clean out of ice cream stands.

The result: no dice. Operation Sixteen was not going to be succeeding that day.

Now, you may think me overdramatic here. I was crushed, sure, but I was still at the park, and the game was still solid, and it was only a minor hiccup, right? Why should I let something like that bother me?

Because with that one little bad karmic stroke, things went downhill.

• First off, the Twins blew the lead. In the bottom of the 9th. With two outs. And two strikes. The damn closer gave up the tying run, and then the 10th inning reliever gave up another run in the 10th. They were one strike away from a victory, and ended up losing 5-4.
• Secondly, since the game went into extra innings, it took almost four hours. Which necessitated taking a cab right from the stadium if I wanted to get to The 5-8 Club before closing.
• My cab driver was incompetent. He expected me to give him directions and know where this place was. Hey jerkwad: this is your town, not mine. I've been here 4 hours. Shouldn't you know where things are?!
• You may have noticed I have not linked to The 5-8 Club's Web site at any point in this post. That's because when I arrived, at 11:20pm, the place was closed. Lights off. Empty parking lot. They were supposed to be open until midnight. I hadn't had dinner. So yeah, I'm pissed. No link for you. Jerks.
• Did I mention my cab driver was incompetent? He had no idea how to get me back to my hotel. And I had to tell him at one point that we were going the wrong way. I did. How does he not know that Bloomington is south of Minneapolis, and that heading towards downtown is going the opposite direction?! Asshat.

And so I returned to my hotel at midnight, due to awaken at 4:30am, in a sour mood, having had no dinner, and unable to sleep because of my hunger. On the upside, the decor of the room was far less of an eyesore with the lights off. Small blessings, I suppose.

So concludes Day 1 of my trip. There are more misadventures to come, so stay tuned for the rest of tale in tomorrow's post!