Anything But Boring

One of the fun things about living alone is that, when the time comes to load up on food and beverage, you don't have to ask anyone's permission before whipping out the greenbacks. Hypothetically, you can buy whatever your little heart (or larger stomach) desires, and there's not a damn thing anyone else can do about it.

Unfortunately, my recent solitariness was an unforced decision, so while I've enjoyed the ability to buy my foodstuffs at will, I've also noticed during my treks to the fridge that there are plenty of previous purchases remaining from the days when Karen was here.

Now, I have a thing about wasting food. (I know what you're thinking, and yes, I genuinely do believe that's a big part of the reason why I look the way I do, but stay with me here, okay?) It goes back to many, many years ago, when I lost my appetite one night at dinner and got a mighty parental guilt trip for wanting to throw away three-quarters of an uneaten hot dog. Since then, my plates have almost always been spotless, because I just can't bear to be wasteful.

So when I looked in the fridge and saw several perishable items that were approaching their date of perishing, I felt an obligation to send them to my gullet as opposed to the garbage.

One such item was a bottle of Simply Limeade (which, if you haven't had it, is delicious). Karen and I had acquired it for use in making margaritas, but the tequila was gone and, since I'm not much of a tequila guy anyway, I wasn't inclined to get more. But I am a vodka man, the one connection to my Polish ancestry that my ancestors must actually be proud of, so upon discovering the remaining limeade, I retreated to the Internet to discover what drinks could be made with vodka and lime juice.

Turns out there's a drink made from just those two ingredients: the gimlet.

I made my first one last night, true to the proportions I'd found in all the recipes I saw online: four parts vodka to one part sweetened lime juice.

I'll say that again, so that it sinks in: four parts vodka, to one part lime juice.

I made a single gimlet in a glass that couldn't possibly hold more than 12 ounces, and I didn't even fill the glass. And let me tell you, my friends, I wasn't a third of the way through it and I was feeling it like I couldn't believe. The thing was an absolute powerhouse. And the best part? The limeade was so sweet that it didn't even taste too liquor-ish. What a deadly concoction!

So tonight, I tried to temper things a bit by mixing one that was a bit gentler: this time, equal parts vodka and limeade. And guess what? Halfway through, the stuff still gave me a feeling of noticeable impairment. (Intoxication is probably a bit too strong a word.) I was stunned. How did the gimlet do it!

I've yet to figure out an answer to it, but I can't tell you how excited I have found something that can balance my old standby, the screwdriver.

But if you'll excuse me, I need to go run to the store now to grab some more fixins. And more limeade.

"There's One in Every Family, Sire. TWO in Mine, Actually..."

He inspires strangely Nabokovian angst, making everyone in sight groan exasperatedly, "Really?...Really?! Yeesh!"

Okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch. (Seriously. Me saying "Yeesh"? You all know I have no problem working way bluer than that.) But while much of my tenure in DC has been good--including but certainly not limited to my work, which I was very nervous about at the onset--I am already growing weary of something on which I think all corporate peons can relate to me.

I am currently entering week four of a five-week intensive classroom training session to be a background investigator. It was insanely overwhelming at first, but as I've become more comfortable with the material, built a rapport with my instructors, and made some nice friendships amongst my classmates, it's become easier and more pleasant. That last part is particularly helpful since, of the thirteen people who are in this session, at least eight of them are in their twenties as well. Yay peer group!

Of course, the problem is that there were still four other people in class who are not our age. And while I'm not exactly a fan of broad stereotyping, the truth is that this job, which is very much computer-intensive, is proving to be much more of a challenge for the old folks than it is for us young whippersnappers.

Consider this: of the four elder statespeople, two of them combined at one point during the first week to generate easily 90% of all the questions asked of our instructors. Now, don't get me wrong: I've asked my share of questions myself, and I certainly don't judge anyone who does because, for the most part, there really are no stupid questions--especially when you're learning something new and radically different for the very first time. But when we were shown a program three days ago, and you still don't know how to open a damn file? Well, sir, maybe this job just isn't for you.

What's really interesting is that this whole thing proved too much for one of this dynamic duo, who resigned from our class and switched positions in the company to better accommodate his abilities. (And I sincerely wish him all the best.) But as it turns out, question askers are like testicles. When one of the testicles needs to be excised--for whatever horrid, unfortunate, devastating reason--the lone nut psychically takes over and performs double duty, so that the, er, output doesn't suffer any noticeable change. So it is with question askers. With his partner in crime gone, the lone confused older gentleman somehow managed to pick up that slack and ask even more dumb questions than he did before.

And so he has become...That Guy.

You know what I mean...

That Guy who takes three and a half hours to do what everyone else was able to complete in roughly two hours.

That Guy who mumbles, hums, and narrates to himself while he struggles in the seat behind you, distracting your attention while you try desperately to beat the goddamn poker game on your BlackBerry.

That Guy who insists upon talking to you when you're trying to read because God forbid you have one quiet moment to enjoy your book, damn it.

Yup. That Guy.

I could go on but, really, I think we've all known someone like that. Hell, maybe you are That Guy yourself. If you think you might be, please, do us all a favor and STFU already. We'd really appreciate it.

Of course, I bet I know what you're all wondering. Who is That Guy?

What? I didn't mention it right off that bat? I thought I did. Hmm... Well, it's probably best to just keep it hidden away to myself.

But believe me, he's there. And who's got two thumbs and can't freaking wait to get out of classroom training as a result?

This Guy.

Radio Gaga

I know, I know.

I have been horribly negligent around these parts. It's true, I get it. I have excuses, but like the old expression goes, excuses are like assholes: everyone's got one, and they all stink.

So you probably don't care that, since my last post, when I was just getting myself acquainted with the greater DC Metro area, life has been a veritable whirlwind of emotion and, generally, awesomeness.

Where to begin, where to begin. Well...

After one week of working I managed to find myself feeling like I was in way over my head but it was okay because so were the rest of the people in my class and a lot of them are really nice so it was good to think that I might make some friends after all but I was still lonely because I missed Karen really bad and was hoping she would find something soon so she could come up here but then she told me she felt like she'd have better chances finding work if she was local so I talked to my landlord and he was cool with her coming up here to stay so she took care of her stuff down in Texas then packed up her car and drove up here and that made both of us really super happy and it's been general domestic bliss ever since except for the fact that we both suspect my roommate is resentful of the two of us for some strange reason but despite that we haven't really let us get it down and instead we've channeled our energy into improving the state of my humble basement including but not limited to getting these sweet stainless steel coasters from Bed Bath & Beyond as well as nifty household stuff like a pizza stone and a pie plate that we were going to use to make a chocolate pecan pie for a Pi Day party on Sunday but Karen got sick last week with what we thought was a cold but ended up being a sinus infection and she hasn't started shaking it until today so we had to buy a pie from the store and no one showed up anyway but that was fine because Emily and Sam are really good people who let us borrow their futon mattress so neither of us has to sleep on an air mattress anymore and besides between they two and my Princeton friends in the area and Steph and John who are also super cute and oh yeah can't forget about Alicia who comes over for dinner and 24 every Monday night and did I mention that Karen's watching 24 too and I think that's super sweet and I couldn't be happier right now and really feel like my life nay our life is beginning to fall into place really really nicely and it looks just as great as I'd always imagined.

There, I think that about sums it up.

Well, except for one thing.

Turns out I've undergone an interesting and somewhat alarming change since I've gotten here. One that I never anticipated I would ever experience. One that took me quite by surprise.

It all started when Karen insisted upon playing me the video for the ubiquitous Lady Gaga hit "Bad Romance". Now, at first, I thought the song was silly, and it drove me nuts every time I realized that it had gotten stuck in my head. But after a few such instances, it was hard to deny that the song was getting into my brain. I fought it for a long while. I kept it buried deep inside, but it was getting harder and harder to refuse.

Could this really be happening? Could I... ...actually like "Bad Romance"?

I tested the waters of my newfound admission the weekend before last, as Karen and I ventured into downtown DC on a museum double-date with Steph and John. While in the car on the way to lunch, I bet John a dollar that he couldn't find "Bad Romance" on the radio before we got to the Olive Garden. Equipped with Sirius XM, he began flipping through the channels.

Friends, it took him a mere ten minutes. Found the song, and we listened to it in its entirety.

Later that night, on the drive home, we tried again. This time it took us fifteen minutes, but there it was once again.

And so it was done: I had to confess I was a fan.

The final blow came the next day. We were in Target, searching for coasters (in what proved to be a frustratingly elusive effort), when we wandered into the music department. Karen was slyly suggesting that I might want to buy something, and I was not fighting this suggestion. And yet, every time I walked past either the L or the G section, it was nowhere to be found. The moment of reckoning was clearly not to be. Another time, perhaps?

Then, as we had just given up, we walked past one final end cap--and there it was. Askew, out of place, and glaring at me behind that black vinyl sleeve. The piercing eyes of a woman declaring proudly, "I'm a free bitch, baby."

How could I not buy it?

And so a page has been turned. I'm not going to be ashamed of my purchase. And, in fact, every person I've mentioned it to has agreed with me that it's good stuff!

So if you're looking for me in the near future, my sincerest apologies. I'll try to be better about blogging and keeping up, and I'll do all I can to make my online presence more clearly felt.

Know this though: you can call all you want, but there's no one home, and you're not gonna reach my telephone.

Home Is Where the Arf Is

This post is a bit longer than the posts you're used to seeing on this blog. I'm sorry about that. But trust me--you're going to want to stick with this story. It's a good one.

Earlier today, I drove from my house in New Jersey to my new home in Northern Virginia. I'd already moved the vast majority of my things in at the end of January, but I went immediately from moving in to taking a two-week siesta in Texas, so I needed to still bring some things down from New Jersey before getting my new DC life going.

So this morning was, as you can imagine, pretty stressful. I, as a rule, tend to forget at least one or two things, no matter how thoroughly I double-check, so I was trying to be as careful as possible.

At last, I found myself standing in my room--not empty, but substantially barer--taking one last look at everything before I departed. My mom strolled in as I was pondering, walked over towards my guitar, and immediately lifted an aged but no-worse-for-the-wear stuffed dog off a pillow laying on the floor. She gave me a look and said, "And what about Wraggles?"

There's a little more backstory necessary here. (Again, I urge you to bear with me.) Wraggles was a gift from my aunt, received almost twenty years ago when I was just five years old. He was a replacement for my former beloved stuffed animal, Snuggle Bear (yes, the fabric softener spokesplush), which I'd lost on a family vacation to North Carolina. I was very attached to my stuffed animals, so the unceremonious loss of Snuggle Bear had affected me powerfully, and my aunt felt that perhaps if she was able to attempt, in some small way, to replace him, I might start feeling better. Well, it worked like a charm. I immediately adored Wraggles. And while over the years my taste for stuffed animals undulated like a rolling tide--at one point, I slept with no less than four--many came and went from my bedside but Wraggles always remained.

So when Mom asked me "And what about Wraggles?" I was a bit torn. He would be coming with me, sure--that much was non-negotiable. But my current residence has a certain temporary feel to it because, with Karen's DC job search in full swing, it'll be only a matter of time before we strike out and look for a place together. So as much as I wanted Wraggles to join me, I didn't feel like now was the right time.

And so I told Mom he was staying. Then I asked for a moment alone with him, which she gladly obliged. Once she'd left, I clutched my plush pooch, gave him a big hug, and said, "Don't you worry. I'll come back for you. But for now, you hold down the fort here." I went to replace him on the caseless pillow on the floor, but it just didn't seem right. And as I'd stripped the bed to have the sheets washed, I couldn't replace him there either.

So instead, I opted to give him a significant, if less cushy, vantage point:



There I laid him, and with that, I took another load out to the car, leaving only my guitar and my computer bag behind.

Now, my mom had been helping bring stuff out to my car as well, but my dad and my brother were both in the garage working on fixing the shocks on my brother's truck. So I had a pretty good idea of where everyone was while I was in the car arranging things to be transported. When I went back into the house, my brother and father were still in the garage and my mom was, I assumed, back inside.

Once I got inside, I heard my mom's voice call out to me, "Changed your mind?" I didn't know what to make of this, so I asked back, "What do you mean?" At that point, I deciphered that her voice from coming from my room, so I went immediately there. As I walked in, she looked at me, then pointed, and said, "About that."

"That," dear reader, being this:



I giggled a bit. After all, it was pretty cute. So I looked at my mom and said it was very cute. But what she said next was far from cute: "What are you talking about?" Oh, you know, Mom. The way you moved Wraggles so he'd be sitting on my bag like that. "I didn't move him." Yeah you did. I left him on my desk. "Dave, I didn't move him." You had to have. "I really didn't." Oh, come on...

But then came the pièce de résistance: "I swear on my mother's grave."

Talk about a gut check. My mom lies about lots of stuff (hell, we all do), but I learned a long, long time ago that if I wanted to get the truth out of my mother, I'd only have to ask one question. Back when my grandmother was still alive, that question was, "Do you swear on your father's grave?" Then it became, "Do you swear on your mother's grave?" Either way, the result is the same: my mother will lie about a lot of things, but she will never swear on her parents' graves if she's telling anything less than the truth.

In other words, she did not move Wraggles.

Of course, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that my brother or father had moved him--perhaps on her request. But in my mind, I'd already ruled them out: they were in the garage the whole time, and besides, Dad would have had better things to do, and my brother probably would've just picked on me for still keeping a stuffed animal around (even though he, manly man that he is, moved his old blankey to his new house when he got married). And besides, it would be a loophole for Mom to be able to swear on their graves and not be lying--but again, I figured that was a bit too deceptive and tricky for such a serious oath.

Nevertheless, after I loaded up my guitar and computer case, I asked my brother and my father if they'd gone inside during my last trip out to the car. And neither one of them did. Nor did they have any clue why I would ask something like that.

So Mom didn't move Wraggles. Dad didn't move Wraggles. My brother didn't move Wraggles.

And there was no one else home.

So what exactly happened?

Truth be told, I don't know. But what I do know is this: even if there is a plausible, rational explanation for what happened, I can't shake the bizarreness of what transpired. Somehow, Wraggles was meant to come down here with me, no matter how temporary my present situation. He was like the Hobbes to my Calvin, vital and essential. Or perhaps, as Karen suggested, he needed to be there so that no matter what happened, I would have something to hug--because really, don't we all need to be able to just do that sometimes?

But really, none of that matters. What matters is that, after seeing what happened, and not being able to explain it, I became convinced of one very obvious thing: there was no way I could leave him in New Jersey.

So he did come with me this time, temporariness be damned. And before long, he had a new fort to defend:



And I wouldn't have it any other way.

It Must Be Love

Me (11:07): http://selleckwaterfallsandwich.tumblr.com
Me (11:07): i have NO IDEA why i find this cool
Me (11:07): but i do
Karen (11:08): hahahaha
Karen (11:11): ok, this is brilliant
Me (11:11): i know!
Me (11:11): but WHY?!
Karen (11:12): 1. Tom Selleck
Karen (11:12): 2. Waterfalls
Karen (11:12): 3. Delicious Sandwiches
Me (11:12): it's all so clear now
Me (11:12): how could i have missed it?
Karen (11:13): no idea

Lest We Lose Sight

Last year on this day, the United States of America celebrated a highly momentous occasion--a day that, regardless of how you feel about the year that has transpired since, ushered in a new and progressive era for our great nation.

Unfortunately, while our attention was fixated (perhaps rightfully so) on the inauguration of our first black President, we lost sight of another incredibly important occasion. An annual festival that, like last year's inauguration, is about black and white, but also about so much more.

This year, it may be easy to slip into the routine again. To be divisive and disagree over progress or a lack thereof. But let's not lose sight of those we overlooked one year ago.

I encourage you all, my dear readers, to take time to celebrate today and give credit to those things that we tend to look at adoringly all winter long but never quite give their proper due.

With that in mind, let me be what I hope is one of many to wish you all a very joyous, safe, and happy National Penguin Awareness Day.

And if you see Danny DeVito today, give him a hug. Old penguins need love too.

Driven to the Edge

(If you're expecting a New Year's Resolution-related post, you are barking up the wrong tree.)

I understand that the holiday rush, despite its best intentions, can tend to bring out the worst in people. Between the stress, pressure, and impatience, it's sometimes hard to find that holiday cheer that we all so desperately crave at the turn of the year.

But despite that understanding, there is one holiday phenomenon that I simply cannot explain: the proliferation of insanely shitty drivers.

My major beefs boil down to three specific driving types, all of whom I have encountered already today:

• 1) The Drifters -- The drivers in small neighborhoods and side roads who decide that, because there's no double yellow line and no other drivers on that particular road, they can simply drive right down the middle. Which is all fine and dandy, until another driver comes up from the opposite direction. Inevitably, no matter how long or straight the road, the Drifter will not see you coming until the last second, at which point they will veer sharply to their right. Inevitably, a look of contorted rage--how dare you take your fair share of the road!--will be visible on their faces as you pass by.
  
  
• 2) The Highway Robbers -- Most commonly found on multi-lane roads, but you will occasionally find them in neighborhoods too. These are the folks who are pulling onto a highway, either from an on-ramp or a store parking lot, and simply can't resist coming over, even if the timing is inopportune. As if that wasn't bad enough, they will often proceed to drive at a rate far below the speed limit--after all, it is the slow lane, isn't it?--and force you to accelerate past them angrily. And the worst part? They are often so oblivious to their own inability to find the gas pedal that, should you look over to shoot them an angry look as you careen past, they are often found blissfully staring straight ahead, often singing along with some tune on their radio.
  
  
• 3) The Routiners -- We are all guilty of this from time to time. There are certain parts of our drives, such as the first turn or two out of our driveways, that feel like routines. We know the traffic, we know the situations, we can do them with our eyes shut. The problem is, the Routiners, I suspect, actually do perform these parts of the drive with their eyes shut, because whenever a glitch in the pattern appears--say, for instance, someone looking to make a left into the street that you yourself are looking to make a left onto--they do not sway from their expectations, acting as if you weren't there and nearly causing a catastrophic and insanely silly accident.

Dishonorable mention goes to those drivers who, out of some twisted sense of altruism, forgo their right of way, especially on main thoroughfares, to let someone from a side road turn onto their street. Your courtesy was doubtlessly appreciated by the person turning, but not so much by the few cars behind you that had to slam on their brakes to avoid a multi-car pile up.

Want to be really altruistic? If you're one of these drivers, park your car in your driveway and leave it there.

Good Thing I Quit Grad School, Part 5299

I gotta tell you, folks. I didn't really think I'd be getting a new reason so quickly. I almost don't know how to react.

I guess it wasn't clear enough that grad school wasn't for me when my potential thesis imploded in my face. Oh good heavens, no. We needed a clearer sign, a more obvious sign.

Something that made me overlook the unbearable stress and the long hours and the lack of good ideas and the challenge of finding motivation and the frustrations of teaching and the pressure of publication. You know, all that made leaving seem like a good idea, but the payoff--oh, the payoff!--still seemed so sweet. Tenure! Research! Comfort! Leisure! Joy!

Sure, it's a bitch of a road to get to the end and finish your dissertation, but once that Ph.D. is superglued to the end of your name, surely the riches of the academic life are to follow. And how could one possibly resist the allures?

I'm sorry, what was that?...

...Yeah, that'll do it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pat myself on the back for a little while.

(Thanks to Karen of Current Rewind for the link!)

Good Thing I Quit Grad School, Part 5298

I am what you'd call a recovering academic. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, but when you're an academic and you're stuck in a pattern of self-defeating soul-suckery, sometimes admission just isn't enough. When you're in that deep, you need to get out.

Fortunately, I've come out the other side and lived to tell the tale. And sure, there have been moments where I've had my doubts, wondered if I made the correct call. Today, however, was one of those days that reassured me I did, in fact, make the right decision.

When I was still fresh-faced and bright-eyed (i.e. first semester), I wrote a paper for a science fiction seminar on Coheed and Cambria. It felt like the right choice to me: it was sci-fi related but off the beaten path, and it allowed me to bring in multidisciplinary elements instead of merely writing about a book and some articles. As I developed the paper, the whole thing felt incredibly strong to me, and I was really proud of the ideas I was coming up with.

The general thesis, in two sentences, was that Coheed and Cambria--by utilizing music albums, online forums, comic books, and other nontraditional media to share their saga--were essentially the science fiction pulps of the new millennium. If writing was dead, or dying, in that millennium, their music represented both a rejection of writing and a vehicle through which sci-fi plots could be conveyed to the masses.

I loved it. I turned it into my Master's thesis. I had for a while considered revising it into an article. The only problem was, I had written it with only four of the five planned albums in the series completed. Then I left grad school before the final chapter was released and the whole idea was shelved.

Good thing. Today, Coheed announced the plans for the new record:

With “Year of the Black Rainbow,” we will be releasing a deluxe package that includes a NOVEL OF THE SAME NAME. Not a graphic novel, but a full 300+page prose novel, which will tell the origins of Coheed and Cambria, and much more. There will be no mystery to this story, you will be able to explore it like never before.

As a Coheed fan, I am stoked by this. But if I was still a grad student, I would be pissed.

A novel. Not a comic book, but a novel. Like, just words on paper. The most traditional storytelling medium ever invented.

And...boom goes my thesis.

Good thing I got out of the academic game! Otherwise, I'd be singing "What did I do to deserve this?" from now until the blood red summer.

What Happened to the Funny?

That's actually a hypothetical question.

I gotta tell you: I have no idea.

See, my two blogs operate in very different ways. With A Rapturous Verbatim, I tend to spend at least a day or two (if not more) ruminating on the topic I discuss before I ever sit down to start writing. So while I really do try hard to make sure that I post with some kind of regularity, the frequency of updates there is just not going to be that high. Truly profound things just don't happen every day, you feel me?

This blog, however, is and always has been about embracing the sudden, the random, the brief, and mostly the funny. It's lighthearted and unserious, and was started with the simple mission of allowing me to post things that didn't involve long stretches of contemplation. If I saw something and thought it was silly, or said something to someone that I thought was funny, then bam--Tournament time.

So it would seem logical to assume that, as it's been exactly one month since my last post, nothing funny has happened. That's not exactly true.

My focus has just been in a different place lately, is all. I pursued a job opportunity, which I eventually got (!!!), and have focused on steeling myself for the big transition.

I've also been trying to get back into the swing of my weight loss scheme, which has stalled out a bit lately what with impromptu vacations and the impending holidays.

And really, the funniest thing I've done lately is make a semi-drunken video of me dancing to Phoenix's "Fences," but that was also to make someone very special happy, so...that's more of a private thing.

So take heart, all two or three of you that actually read this. I have not abandoned you, and I promise I'll be back to form soon.