It's been sort of a busy and uninspiring week, hence the lack of posts. I could talk about Chase Utley's broken hand as a metaphor for everything that's horrible and tragic in my life (this is a blog, after all), but instead I think I'll stick to some random musings regarding the week in Maine I'll be enjoying come tomorrow morning. I've never been to Maine. I have no idea what it's like or what you do there. But here's what I'm imagining:
-- Me in plaid shorts sipping some sort of lemonade through a straw.
-- Me strolling along the docks, discussing the tides.
-- Me shoving every lobster roll in the great state of Maine into my mouth.
-- Me hiking for five seconds.
-- Me upside down in a kayak unable to flip back over.
-- My girlfriend asking me to cool it with the lobster rolls.
-- Me reading Cloud Atlas for a few hours, then switching to US Weekly.
-- Me thinking the Lobster Fest would be a hell of a lot better without all these other people.
-- Me getting lost on the drive up there.
-- Me hanging out with hippies.
-- Me watching the sunset while eating a lobster roll.
-- Me reaching into the water, pulling out a lobster, and biting into it.
Hmmm, that's all I can think of. Oh, but here's my Grand Vision of what it will be like in Maine: I picture that as I drive into the state, suddenly there will be people lining both sides of the highway like there's a marathon or the Tour de France going by. But instead of a race, it's just me in my Toyota. And instead of cups filled with water, all these people are holding out, obviously, hot dog rolls filled with lobster meat. So we roll down the windows, stick our hands out, and grab as many lobster rolls as we can while driving by. Ah, Maine.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Documentary Rundown
I'm shooting a short documentary this weekend, which will mark my first time behind a camera in about nine years, as well as my first attempt at nonfiction. The last time I shot something, it was actually on film!!! Remember that stuff?
To prepare for this possibly catastrophic happening, I've spent a few months cramming as many documentaries as possible into my Netflix queue, and even condescended to catch a few in a theater (sorry, just finished reading The Red and The Black. to save you the trouble, here's the best thing about the book: the way they throw the word "condescended" around. good stuff.).
Without further ado (it's Friday, after all) here are some mini capsule reviews of the docs I remember. For best results, read this along with your own Netflix page open.
Let's Get Lost: absolutely gorgeous, borderline mesmerizing, though I felt a better familiarity with Chet Baker's music going in would have helped. Still, very good.
New York Doll: sad, bittersweet, and strangely inspiring. Really like this one.
Lessons in Darkness: minor Herzog, I'd say. but beautiful, eery, and powerful in spots. Fans of long helicopter shots set to Wagner will not be disappointed.
Little Dieter Needs to Fly: A can't miss, must see. Excellent, primo example of Herzog's nonfiction work. I'm leery of Rescue Dawn.
Wings of Hope: Not on Dieter's level, but a fine companion piece. Saw them both at Film Forum, along with Herzog himself in person. Best day at the movies of all time.
After Innocence: Heartbreaking. This one really got to me.
Darwin's Nightmare: an unexpected disappointment. too long, too slow getting to the point, too many sequences where the filmmaker rests solely on the fact that "Hey, check this out. I'm really here with a camera." I confess to not finishing it, which is rare for me.
Running Stumbled: completely stunning, though I would have like a tad more context. Still, if you want to watch a familial train wreck play itself out, this is your movie.
Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock?: Outstanding! Possibly the best doc I've watched during this stretch. Colorful characters, infuriatingly snobbishness, a good mystery of sorts, excellent production, this one had it all. The scene where he interviews the famous art forger encapsulates what documentaries are capable of, in my opinion. Simple and stunning.
Gigantic: A Tale of Two Johns: made the mistake of watching this the same night as Pollock. suffered terrible by comparison. atrocious production values, yet the caliber of talent interviewed is eye-opening. didn't finish this one, either.
The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill: watched this reluctantly, but was quite surprised by it. touching, intriguing, heartbreaking in spots.
Deliver Us From Evil: was really looking forward to this, then hated it. felt like watching a 20/20 piece, but slower. did not like the approach at all. turned it off after twenty minutes. Eh.
Jonestown, The Life and Death of Peoples Temple: Outstanding, haunting. I didn't know this story well, other than the kool aid stuff, of course. In fact, I didn't even realize audio tapes exist of them drinking the poison. Unbelievably powerful glimpse into the darkest corners of humanity. I couldn't sleep after.
Street Fight: interesting, compelling, a good watch, though I confess to not having thought once about it after.
Cocaine Cowboys: just ok. don't go out of your way.
This Film Is Not Yet Rated: another one I liked, but pretty much forgot about the second it was over.
The "Up" Series: a true masterpiece in every sense of the word. watch them all, in order. if you have even a passing interest in cinema, this is required viewing.
My Architect: pretty good, but definitely skippable.
Marjoe: it's pretty much the same scene over and over again, but this story of a child preacher turned hippie con man is fascinating and engaging throughout. as much a documentary about charisma as anything.
Koko: A Talking Gorilla: fascinating in the extreme. what exactly does it mean to be human? and if that sounds a little dry for your tastes, this film costars the cutest biologist (or whatever she is) in the history of modern science. which might not be saying much, but still.
Unknown White Male: exhilarating exploration of memory and identity. breaks down what it actually means to completely lose one's memory. imagine tasting every food again for the very first time! as the film puts it, to experience the world as an infant, but with the appreciation of an adult. brilliant. watch this one.
Our Brand Is Crisis: excellent and frightening. and this is what American liberals are doing abroad! jesus.
Well, there are more, but my fingers hurt and it's lunchtime. Hope that's enough to get you started!
To prepare for this possibly catastrophic happening, I've spent a few months cramming as many documentaries as possible into my Netflix queue, and even condescended to catch a few in a theater (sorry, just finished reading The Red and The Black. to save you the trouble, here's the best thing about the book: the way they throw the word "condescended" around. good stuff.).
Without further ado (it's Friday, after all) here are some mini capsule reviews of the docs I remember. For best results, read this along with your own Netflix page open.
Let's Get Lost: absolutely gorgeous, borderline mesmerizing, though I felt a better familiarity with Chet Baker's music going in would have helped. Still, very good.
New York Doll: sad, bittersweet, and strangely inspiring. Really like this one.
Lessons in Darkness: minor Herzog, I'd say. but beautiful, eery, and powerful in spots. Fans of long helicopter shots set to Wagner will not be disappointed.
Little Dieter Needs to Fly: A can't miss, must see. Excellent, primo example of Herzog's nonfiction work. I'm leery of Rescue Dawn.
Wings of Hope: Not on Dieter's level, but a fine companion piece. Saw them both at Film Forum, along with Herzog himself in person. Best day at the movies of all time.
After Innocence: Heartbreaking. This one really got to me.
Darwin's Nightmare: an unexpected disappointment. too long, too slow getting to the point, too many sequences where the filmmaker rests solely on the fact that "Hey, check this out. I'm really here with a camera." I confess to not finishing it, which is rare for me.
Running Stumbled: completely stunning, though I would have like a tad more context. Still, if you want to watch a familial train wreck play itself out, this is your movie.
Who the #$&% is Jackson Pollock?: Outstanding! Possibly the best doc I've watched during this stretch. Colorful characters, infuriatingly snobbishness, a good mystery of sorts, excellent production, this one had it all. The scene where he interviews the famous art forger encapsulates what documentaries are capable of, in my opinion. Simple and stunning.
Gigantic: A Tale of Two Johns: made the mistake of watching this the same night as Pollock. suffered terrible by comparison. atrocious production values, yet the caliber of talent interviewed is eye-opening. didn't finish this one, either.
The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill: watched this reluctantly, but was quite surprised by it. touching, intriguing, heartbreaking in spots.
Deliver Us From Evil: was really looking forward to this, then hated it. felt like watching a 20/20 piece, but slower. did not like the approach at all. turned it off after twenty minutes. Eh.
Jonestown, The Life and Death of Peoples Temple: Outstanding, haunting. I didn't know this story well, other than the kool aid stuff, of course. In fact, I didn't even realize audio tapes exist of them drinking the poison. Unbelievably powerful glimpse into the darkest corners of humanity. I couldn't sleep after.
Street Fight: interesting, compelling, a good watch, though I confess to not having thought once about it after.
Cocaine Cowboys: just ok. don't go out of your way.
This Film Is Not Yet Rated: another one I liked, but pretty much forgot about the second it was over.
The "Up" Series: a true masterpiece in every sense of the word. watch them all, in order. if you have even a passing interest in cinema, this is required viewing.
My Architect: pretty good, but definitely skippable.
Marjoe: it's pretty much the same scene over and over again, but this story of a child preacher turned hippie con man is fascinating and engaging throughout. as much a documentary about charisma as anything.
Koko: A Talking Gorilla: fascinating in the extreme. what exactly does it mean to be human? and if that sounds a little dry for your tastes, this film costars the cutest biologist (or whatever she is) in the history of modern science. which might not be saying much, but still.
Unknown White Male: exhilarating exploration of memory and identity. breaks down what it actually means to completely lose one's memory. imagine tasting every food again for the very first time! as the film puts it, to experience the world as an infant, but with the appreciation of an adult. brilliant. watch this one.
Our Brand Is Crisis: excellent and frightening. and this is what American liberals are doing abroad! jesus.
Well, there are more, but my fingers hurt and it's lunchtime. Hope that's enough to get you started!
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Mike Tully Made Me Do It
I must confess to never having heard of this whole meme tagging thing before, if that's even the correct terminology. I have heard of chain letters, though, and how they bring unspeakably bad luck onto those who dare break the chain. I usually ignore them, figuring my luck can't really get much worse. But when you get a shout-out in Boredom at Its Boredest, you'd better get off your ass and deliver some goods. And I'm not in a particularly funny mood this morning, so I'm gonna just take a serious and straightforward approach. Well, here goes:
Rules:
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.
EIGHT THINGS ABOUT JOSH THAT HE PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE TELLING YOU
1. I used to be a Mets fan.
2. I am practically consumed by body image issues.
3. I feel trapped by the theoretical implications of having chosen a "creative" life. Likewise, by the pseudo sense of importance that comes with living in NYC.
4. Writing a blog makes me worry I've become everything I despise.
5. Sometimes I feel like an asshole for not liking children. But, they're dreadful, right? What am I missing?
6. My favorite joke: What's better than winning a gold medal at the Special Olympics? Not being retarded.
7. I'd be much happier cooking in a fish shack on the Jersey shore, living in a bungalow by the beach, watching the Phillies on TV every night, and writing occasionally when inspiration strikes. Of course, I'd never have the nerve to drop everything and actually do it.
8. I wish I had Mike Tully's hair.
Whew! I feel like I've just been to the shrink, which I've never actually done by the way, but am more than a little intrigued by the prospect of doing so. Then again, a blog is basically free therapy, right? Hope all four of my readers enjoyed this voyage to the center of my soul. Now I'm off to cower in shame.
Alas, I fear this exercise was all for naught, as I literally don't know a single blogger other than myself. Guess I just don't travel in such circles. If I think of anyone, I'll be sure to come back and complete #4. Until then, may the Gods of broken chain letters smite me where I sit (seriously, it's only 11:30 and I'm at work, so please, please smite away).
Rules:
1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged write their own blog post about their eight things and include these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged and that they should read your blog.
EIGHT THINGS ABOUT JOSH THAT HE PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE TELLING YOU
1. I used to be a Mets fan.
2. I am practically consumed by body image issues.
3. I feel trapped by the theoretical implications of having chosen a "creative" life. Likewise, by the pseudo sense of importance that comes with living in NYC.
4. Writing a blog makes me worry I've become everything I despise.
5. Sometimes I feel like an asshole for not liking children. But, they're dreadful, right? What am I missing?
6. My favorite joke: What's better than winning a gold medal at the Special Olympics? Not being retarded.
7. I'd be much happier cooking in a fish shack on the Jersey shore, living in a bungalow by the beach, watching the Phillies on TV every night, and writing occasionally when inspiration strikes. Of course, I'd never have the nerve to drop everything and actually do it.
8. I wish I had Mike Tully's hair.
Whew! I feel like I've just been to the shrink, which I've never actually done by the way, but am more than a little intrigued by the prospect of doing so. Then again, a blog is basically free therapy, right? Hope all four of my readers enjoyed this voyage to the center of my soul. Now I'm off to cower in shame.
Alas, I fear this exercise was all for naught, as I literally don't know a single blogger other than myself. Guess I just don't travel in such circles. If I think of anyone, I'll be sure to come back and complete #4. Until then, may the Gods of broken chain letters smite me where I sit (seriously, it's only 11:30 and I'm at work, so please, please smite away).
Friday, July 13, 2007
The Phillies Are Ruining My Life
Well, this is nothing new, I suppose. Rooting for the Philadelphia Phillies has been an ongoing exercise in heartbreak, misery, and crushed dreams for the greater part of my adult life. The annual charade otherwise known as Philadelphia Phillies baseball bears a greater resemblance to the Old Testament than to a supposedly recreational experience. In other words, my people (in this case, the Phans) have really got it rough.
I, of course, blame Boston. If it weren't for the misery of freshman year at BU, I wouldn't even be in this mess. I wasn't even much of a baseball fan back then. I had a passing interest in the game, I suppose, but probably couldn't name more than a few players, and certainly wasn't emotionally invested in any meaningful way. But then I shacked up with a sociopath in a prison-cell like room on Babcock Street. A room which, incidentally, looked out over the highway that might deliver me back to the real world, as I then liked to call the NY/NJ/PA Tri-State area. It was 1993 and I was terribly homesick. Am I a pathetic whiner? Yes. But Boston also really, really, really sucked back then. It was brutal. I hear it's improved.
And the Phillies? Well, 1993 just happened to be one of those magical seasons, where all the stars align and it feels like the universe is having a little fun in your favor. The 1993 Philadelphia Phillies were a bunch of overweight, beer-guzzling, mullet sporting, blue collar nobodies that couldn't have been more "Philly" or less likely to succeed at the game of baseball. They were colorful, lovable, and perfectly summarized by first baseman John Kruk's immortal response to a woman who dared ask how an athlete could exhibit such deplorable personal habits: "I ain't an athlete, lady. I'm a baseball player." These Phillies drank, smoked, and gambled. They also won a lot of baseball games.
My best friend at BU grew up in Philly. He was also homesick, hated the dorms and the city and everything in between. We both had long distance girlfriends (a new and novel experience then), and though I'm not from Philly proper, south Jersey is close enough, and so these lovable losers somehow came to feel like home. The Phillies, to us, stood for everything we missed and had left behind. That sounds cheesy now, but when you're seventeen, away from home for the first time, and really really unhappy, you grasp at anything. It was the Phillies and Kurt Cobain, and both ended up pretty much the same.
When the Phillies beat the heavily favored Atlanta Braves in the National League Championship Series to advance to the World Series against Toronto (this was the final year, I believe, before baseball re-aligned and introduced the Wild Card), I'm not sure anything in my life has matched the sheer exuberation and jubilance of the moment. I can see Mitch "Wild Thing" Williams leap for joy like it happened yesterday. With that moment, I felt a bit better, like I could stick this whole college thing out. This was unbridled, pure and irrational happiness. I can barely even explain it.
But as life-affirmingly glorious as that moment was, this is still Philadelphia Phillies baseball we're talking about. Not only did my newly beloved Phils go on to lose the World Series, they lost in the most heartbreakingly dramatic, gut-punch fashion imaginable. Joe Carter's Series-winning homerun off Wild Thing (who'd soon be run out of Philadelphia and, not too longer after that, be gone from baseball altogether) has become one of baseball's all-time signature moments. It's the homerun every kid who's every pretended to be a baseball player has dreamed of hitting, has acted out hitting in the backyard. It's the Hollywood fantasy of what baseball, and sports in general, is. Any retrospective of indelible moments will include this homerun. It's magical, fantastical, and timeless. And we were on the losing end.
This was fourteen years ago. I'm 32 now, and the Phils have never recovered. They haven't been back to the post-season since (despite the Wild Card, which makes it much easier), and each season brings a new crop of overpaid, highly-touted saviors, all of whom flame out in spectacular fashion. The Phillies lose. This is what they do. And I'm still waiting, like I need to finish the narrative that began in my tiny room on Babcock Street. I want the ending that should have happened back then. I want to move on.
The Phillies, of course, have other ideas. With one more loss, they will reach an (admittedly arbitrary) nadir of futility. They stand perched on the precipice of historic incompetance. With one more loss, the Philadelphia Phillies will have lost 10,000 games. No team, in ANY sport, has lost this many games. Of course, no team has lost 9,999 games, either, so it's not like the Phillies are breaking someone's record. 10,000 is just a big round number, a symbolic monument to 124 years of losing. Since 1883, the Philadelphia Philles, the oldest single city team in baseball, has won the World Series a total of once. Think about that. 124 years. One Championship, in 1980. That is a dizzying achievement.
The Phillies, so meaningful in my life, are a national laughingstock. Their ineptness has transcended the sporting world and become something larger. Whether or not you have any interest in baseball, even if you hate sports, 10,000 losses is a noteworthy happening. My daily life has devolved lately into a series or articles, forwarded by friends and coworkers, detailing the depths to which the Phils are about to sink. Today it was Salon:
www.salon.com/news/feature/2007/07/13/phillies/
Last week it was Sports Illustrated and NPR. This story is everywhere and unavoidable. Do I find it amusing? Yeah. But I also sort of hate it. Why can't they just be good? Why is this so difficult? Why have the Arizona Diamondbacks and the Florida Marlins, two teams created IN THE 1990s (or thereabouts), won three World Series between them? Why does it have to be this way?
Earlier today, my friend Jim sent this missive from Philadelphia:
I, of course, blame Boston. If it weren't for the misery of freshman year at BU, I wouldn't even be in this mess. I wasn't even much of a baseball fan back then. I had a passing interest in the game, I suppose, but probably couldn't name more than a few players, and certainly wasn't emotionally invested in any meaningful way. But then I shacked up with a sociopath in a prison-cell like room on Babcock Street. A room which, incidentally, looked out over the highway that might deliver me back to the real world, as I then liked to call the NY/NJ/PA Tri-State area. It was 1993 and I was terribly homesick. Am I a pathetic whiner? Yes. But Boston also really, really, really sucked back then. It was brutal. I hear it's improved.
And the Phillies? Well, 1993 just happened to be one of those magical seasons, where all the stars align and it feels like the universe is having a little fun in your favor. The 1993 Philadelphia Phillies were a bunch of overweight, beer-guzzling, mullet sporting, blue collar nobodies that couldn't have been more "Philly" or less likely to succeed at the game of baseball. They were colorful, lovable, and perfectly summarized by first baseman John Kruk's immortal response to a woman who dared ask how an athlete could exhibit such deplorable personal habits: "I ain't an athlete, lady. I'm a baseball player." These Phillies drank, smoked, and gambled. They also won a lot of baseball games.
My best friend at BU grew up in Philly. He was also homesick, hated the dorms and the city and everything in between. We both had long distance girlfriends (a new and novel experience then), and though I'm not from Philly proper, south Jersey is close enough, and so these lovable losers somehow came to feel like home. The Phillies, to us, stood for everything we missed and had left behind. That sounds cheesy now, but when you're seventeen, away from home for the first time, and really really unhappy, you grasp at anything. It was the Phillies and Kurt Cobain, and both ended up pretty much the same.
When the Phillies beat the heavily favored Atlanta Braves in the National League Championship Series to advance to the World Series against Toronto (this was the final year, I believe, before baseball re-aligned and introduced the Wild Card), I'm not sure anything in my life has matched the sheer exuberation and jubilance of the moment. I can see Mitch "Wild Thing" Williams leap for joy like it happened yesterday. With that moment, I felt a bit better, like I could stick this whole college thing out. This was unbridled, pure and irrational happiness. I can barely even explain it.
But as life-affirmingly glorious as that moment was, this is still Philadelphia Phillies baseball we're talking about. Not only did my newly beloved Phils go on to lose the World Series, they lost in the most heartbreakingly dramatic, gut-punch fashion imaginable. Joe Carter's Series-winning homerun off Wild Thing (who'd soon be run out of Philadelphia and, not too longer after that, be gone from baseball altogether) has become one of baseball's all-time signature moments. It's the homerun every kid who's every pretended to be a baseball player has dreamed of hitting, has acted out hitting in the backyard. It's the Hollywood fantasy of what baseball, and sports in general, is. Any retrospective of indelible moments will include this homerun. It's magical, fantastical, and timeless. And we were on the losing end.
This was fourteen years ago. I'm 32 now, and the Phils have never recovered. They haven't been back to the post-season since (despite the Wild Card, which makes it much easier), and each season brings a new crop of overpaid, highly-touted saviors, all of whom flame out in spectacular fashion. The Phillies lose. This is what they do. And I'm still waiting, like I need to finish the narrative that began in my tiny room on Babcock Street. I want the ending that should have happened back then. I want to move on.
The Phillies, of course, have other ideas. With one more loss, they will reach an (admittedly arbitrary) nadir of futility. They stand perched on the precipice of historic incompetance. With one more loss, the Philadelphia Phillies will have lost 10,000 games. No team, in ANY sport, has lost this many games. Of course, no team has lost 9,999 games, either, so it's not like the Phillies are breaking someone's record. 10,000 is just a big round number, a symbolic monument to 124 years of losing. Since 1883, the Philadelphia Philles, the oldest single city team in baseball, has won the World Series a total of once. Think about that. 124 years. One Championship, in 1980. That is a dizzying achievement.
The Phillies, so meaningful in my life, are a national laughingstock. Their ineptness has transcended the sporting world and become something larger. Whether or not you have any interest in baseball, even if you hate sports, 10,000 losses is a noteworthy happening. My daily life has devolved lately into a series or articles, forwarded by friends and coworkers, detailing the depths to which the Phils are about to sink. Today it was Salon:
www.salon.com/news/feature/2007/07/13/phillies/
Last week it was Sports Illustrated and NPR. This story is everywhere and unavoidable. Do I find it amusing? Yeah. But I also sort of hate it. Why can't they just be good? Why is this so difficult? Why have the Arizona Diamondbacks and the Florida Marlins, two teams created IN THE 1990s (or thereabouts), won three World Series between them? Why does it have to be this way?
Earlier today, my friend Jim sent this missive from Philadelphia:
"This morning, WMMR dumped 10,000 marbles down the Art Museum steps to celebrate the Phils 10,000th loss."
That sounds about right. Time to stop typing...
That sounds about right. Time to stop typing...
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Tips for the DC Weekender
I just got back to town from a sweltering weekend in our nation's capital. Of course, it's sweltering here, too, and nobody has cars or central air, so I can't say New York is much of an improvement at the moment.
Anyway, here's a handy guide for anyone planning a summer trip to Washington, DC. I hope these tips and suggestions help you discover the beauty and splendor of our great capital city.
1. The 700 pound woman riding the bus has the right to reserve an adjacent seat for her travelling companion: a large pizza pie. Just let it go.
2. Do not watch Darwin's Nightmare five minutes prior to cooking crab cakes for ten people.
3. If you're a big fan of arson, I wholeheartedly recommend the local news. Any channel will do.
4. The Washington Post puts out a free commuter newspaper each weekday. It's called the Express, and not only does it kick the Metro's ass, but it's eminently more readable, newsworthy, and impressive than the actual Washington Post. Good stuff.
5. A little something for my fellow baseball fanatics: it's strangely fascinating to discover a culture in which the Orioles and Nationals are deemed newsworthy. Don't squint at the TV. It's really them.
6. When the white gentrifying yuppies decide they NEED a fish fillet from Whole Foods, stand back and get the hell out of the way. Nothing will prepare you for the sense of entitlement displayed by this segment of the DC population. It's startling and they are to be avoided. These are the same people who think nothing of plopping down a monstrous 3-floor Target/Marshalls/Best Buy mega complex in the center of a supposedly newly desirable urban neighborhood. This is the kind of thing that doesn't go down in NYC without a MAJOR fight. But in DC they just push this shit through. This is bad stuff. Let them get their fish first. It's just easier.
7. If some shirtless dude with a garden hose invites you to hose him down, take it as a compliment. It's not like he asks just anyone.
8. There is absolutely no shade. Get used to it.
9. If you walk for half an hour without passing (or seeing) another pedestrian, do not be alarmed. Or, actually, be alarmed. I'm not sure what this means.
10. The DC Metro is like crawling back into the womb. Provided the womb can take you anywhere you want to go except Georgetown. But if you've ever been to a shopping mall, feel free to skip that part of town anyway.
11. Speaking of the Metro, I recommend acquiring an advanced degree in particle physics before attempting to figure out the ticket dispensing machine.
12. Be sure to brush up on your Supreme Court Justices. You might actually find occasion to discuss them.
13. Do not be alarmed by the absence of a glass partition between the front and back seat of a DC taxi cab. How do you know you haven't just been picked up by some random dude with a car who's going to kidnap and murder you? Um, I'm not sure.
14. If you find yourself strolling down a sidewalk strewn with bones, rest assured that these are chicken, not human, remains. At least that's what someone told me.
I hope that helps.
And now, without further ado, I give you the tangentially related, overly brilliant pop culture reference o' the day, courtesy of the highly esteemed and honourable Mike Tully. This one goes out to all you DC fans and natives. After 5 minutes or so spent struggling to describe PRECISELY just what brand of annoying two filmmakers (who shall remain nameless) happen to be, a conversation initiated by my own desire to understand just why nobody seems to personally like them (though I think their work is quite good), Mike scratched his head, pondered, then managed to summarize the depths of their souls in the space of three perfectly played words: they're "DC Black Cat" he said. Pure and utter brilliance.
Anyway, here's a handy guide for anyone planning a summer trip to Washington, DC. I hope these tips and suggestions help you discover the beauty and splendor of our great capital city.
1. The 700 pound woman riding the bus has the right to reserve an adjacent seat for her travelling companion: a large pizza pie. Just let it go.
2. Do not watch Darwin's Nightmare five minutes prior to cooking crab cakes for ten people.
3. If you're a big fan of arson, I wholeheartedly recommend the local news. Any channel will do.
4. The Washington Post puts out a free commuter newspaper each weekday. It's called the Express, and not only does it kick the Metro's ass, but it's eminently more readable, newsworthy, and impressive than the actual Washington Post. Good stuff.
5. A little something for my fellow baseball fanatics: it's strangely fascinating to discover a culture in which the Orioles and Nationals are deemed newsworthy. Don't squint at the TV. It's really them.
6. When the white gentrifying yuppies decide they NEED a fish fillet from Whole Foods, stand back and get the hell out of the way. Nothing will prepare you for the sense of entitlement displayed by this segment of the DC population. It's startling and they are to be avoided. These are the same people who think nothing of plopping down a monstrous 3-floor Target/Marshalls/Best Buy mega complex in the center of a supposedly newly desirable urban neighborhood. This is the kind of thing that doesn't go down in NYC without a MAJOR fight. But in DC they just push this shit through. This is bad stuff. Let them get their fish first. It's just easier.
7. If some shirtless dude with a garden hose invites you to hose him down, take it as a compliment. It's not like he asks just anyone.
8. There is absolutely no shade. Get used to it.
9. If you walk for half an hour without passing (or seeing) another pedestrian, do not be alarmed. Or, actually, be alarmed. I'm not sure what this means.
10. The DC Metro is like crawling back into the womb. Provided the womb can take you anywhere you want to go except Georgetown. But if you've ever been to a shopping mall, feel free to skip that part of town anyway.
11. Speaking of the Metro, I recommend acquiring an advanced degree in particle physics before attempting to figure out the ticket dispensing machine.
12. Be sure to brush up on your Supreme Court Justices. You might actually find occasion to discuss them.
13. Do not be alarmed by the absence of a glass partition between the front and back seat of a DC taxi cab. How do you know you haven't just been picked up by some random dude with a car who's going to kidnap and murder you? Um, I'm not sure.
14. If you find yourself strolling down a sidewalk strewn with bones, rest assured that these are chicken, not human, remains. At least that's what someone told me.
I hope that helps.
And now, without further ado, I give you the tangentially related, overly brilliant pop culture reference o' the day, courtesy of the highly esteemed and honourable Mike Tully. This one goes out to all you DC fans and natives. After 5 minutes or so spent struggling to describe PRECISELY just what brand of annoying two filmmakers (who shall remain nameless) happen to be, a conversation initiated by my own desire to understand just why nobody seems to personally like them (though I think their work is quite good), Mike scratched his head, pondered, then managed to summarize the depths of their souls in the space of three perfectly played words: they're "DC Black Cat" he said. Pure and utter brilliance.
Friday, July 6, 2007
The Perils of Facebook
So an old friend I haven't heard from in several years sent me a Facebook invite. Since I was at work and will do anything to kill time, I signed up, created a quickie profile, then spent fifteen minutes or so going back and forth with the old friend. In case you aren't in-the-know, Facebook's got something called a "Wall" where you essentially write messages back and forth. Um, it's EXACTLY like email. Which has me wondering what the point of Facebook is. Seriously, can someone enlighten me? Am I just an old fogey, or does this website serve absolutely no purpose other than stroking the egos of everyone on it? What am I missing?
Anyway, that's beside the point. For I come to you today with a cautionary tale. Somehow the single most annoying person in my office discovered my Facebook page. Soon enough, we were entwined, friends, networkers, whatever the hell you call it. We were linked. Okay, fine. But then the trouble started. This dude suddenly felt compelled to walk over to my desk, IN PERSON, to alert me to each and every minor update made to his own profile. All under the auspices of "you've gotta check this out." And I'm not talking once or twice, I'm talking like every ten minutes for the entirety of several afternoons. And he'd sit there while I logged in, schlepped over to his profile, and took in whatever post, video, or photo he'd uploaded. Seriously. Not only must I experience the gradually evolution of his Facebook profile, but I've gotta do it right now, immediately, while he waits! It's almost worse than working. Almost.
Finally, I realized that the problem didn't lie solely in the annoying nature of his character (though it certainly lied there as well), but in the fact that he'd manage to completely misinterpret the entire point of Facebook, of social networking, of the very Internet itself! Now, when I wrote earlier of my confusion regarding the point of Facebook, I was speaking of this particular virtual environment. What I mean is, I grasp the big picture. I understand where exactly lies the beauty and splendor of the Internet, of online activities in general: the Internet is a tool by which I may relieve myself from the burdens of actual, physical human contact. There's a reason why 98% of my communication is undertaken via email, and it's not cause I love typing. It's that I hate people. Not only am I thoroughly uninterested in the minutia of your Facebook profile, but I certainly don't want to have to talk to you MORE because of it. The entire point of the Internet is that we don't have to talk anymore, ever again! Let's run with that.
So be careful, Facebookers. Don't let this happen to you.
Ok, now for some $6 Indian lunch buffet.
Anyway, that's beside the point. For I come to you today with a cautionary tale. Somehow the single most annoying person in my office discovered my Facebook page. Soon enough, we were entwined, friends, networkers, whatever the hell you call it. We were linked. Okay, fine. But then the trouble started. This dude suddenly felt compelled to walk over to my desk, IN PERSON, to alert me to each and every minor update made to his own profile. All under the auspices of "you've gotta check this out." And I'm not talking once or twice, I'm talking like every ten minutes for the entirety of several afternoons. And he'd sit there while I logged in, schlepped over to his profile, and took in whatever post, video, or photo he'd uploaded. Seriously. Not only must I experience the gradually evolution of his Facebook profile, but I've gotta do it right now, immediately, while he waits! It's almost worse than working. Almost.
Finally, I realized that the problem didn't lie solely in the annoying nature of his character (though it certainly lied there as well), but in the fact that he'd manage to completely misinterpret the entire point of Facebook, of social networking, of the very Internet itself! Now, when I wrote earlier of my confusion regarding the point of Facebook, I was speaking of this particular virtual environment. What I mean is, I grasp the big picture. I understand where exactly lies the beauty and splendor of the Internet, of online activities in general: the Internet is a tool by which I may relieve myself from the burdens of actual, physical human contact. There's a reason why 98% of my communication is undertaken via email, and it's not cause I love typing. It's that I hate people. Not only am I thoroughly uninterested in the minutia of your Facebook profile, but I certainly don't want to have to talk to you MORE because of it. The entire point of the Internet is that we don't have to talk anymore, ever again! Let's run with that.
So be careful, Facebookers. Don't let this happen to you.
Ok, now for some $6 Indian lunch buffet.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
I'm Injured
Here's a little tip: If you're going to sprain your foot/ankle while running down a flight of stairs, be sure to do so in the comfort of your own home. Or at least close to home, or someplace where people own and drive automobiles. Trust me on this. Don't get hurt when the specter of the Chinatown Bus looms in your near future, or when the F Train decides to stop running, or when every taxi cab in New York City is stuffed with tourists. Because when you disembark from the festering, hellacious Third World-on-wheels that is the Dragon Coach, when you find yourself on some esoteric Chinatown corner, and you've only got one usable foot and there's no way to get home, well then you my friend are royally screwed.
I've spent the last 2 nights plopped down on the couch with bags of frozen peas rubber banded around my ankle. I have absolutely no idea where to get a pair of crutches, other than from the hospital (and the thought of sitting in an emergency room in NYC is obviously worse than the pain of my injury). Seriously, where do you get crutches? A drugstore? The supermarket? Home Depot? eBay? I've got no freaking idea. Where the hell do people get those things?
So my normally decadent 3 block commute to work (which I highly recommend by the way. living further than 3 blocks from the office is for suckers) has evolved (devolved?) into a comedy of errors. My pace is about on par with that of your average garden slug. I've actually found myself clinging to scaffolding for support, which marks the second handy use I've found for the stuff -- the first being shelter from the rain. People are staring at me like I've just wandered out from the local leper colony. So I'm limping, is that such a crime? And yeah, I'm wearing flip-flops. I can't get a goddamn shoe on my foot. Whatta ya want from me? It's like there's a photographer from Vice Magazine lurking around every corner, waiting to pounce and turn me into a Don't (sorry for the 6 year old reference. do people still read Vice? does it still exist?). I am the walking, poorly dressed wounded.
An interest aside: so, my feet are abnormally white, right? Actually, my entire body is a bit on the, shall we say, non-tan side. But my feet haven't seen the sun in years. They're sort of cadaver-esque, I suppose. ANYWAY, every coworker I've encountered (which isn't many, actually, since I take great pains to avoid them) has delighted in ridiculing the pigment of my poor innocent footsies. Except, and get this (!): for the Indian girl with whom I share an office, who's done everything short of swooning at the sight of my milky white appendages. Seriously, she LOVES them. She has complimented me (repeatedly) on how white they are!!! To say nothing of the wonderful state of my toenails and tasteful, not-too-hairy tufts upon my toes. But it's the whiteness she's really taken with! Now, as someone as pale as I, this is quite a revelation. It's like discovering that a culture exists where the women pine for guys who are 5'9", have terrible hair, and sport rather large schnozzes. So, I press for details and it turns out that in India, the whiter the feet, the more attractive a person is considered to be. In fact, people BLEACH THEIR FEET to make them more white! What??? Jesus Christ, where has this information been my whole life? You mean to tell me I've spent 30 years cultivating a sense of humor, when I could have just bought a plane ticket and picked up women with my white feet? Good God!
I've spent the last 2 nights plopped down on the couch with bags of frozen peas rubber banded around my ankle. I have absolutely no idea where to get a pair of crutches, other than from the hospital (and the thought of sitting in an emergency room in NYC is obviously worse than the pain of my injury). Seriously, where do you get crutches? A drugstore? The supermarket? Home Depot? eBay? I've got no freaking idea. Where the hell do people get those things?
So my normally decadent 3 block commute to work (which I highly recommend by the way. living further than 3 blocks from the office is for suckers) has evolved (devolved?) into a comedy of errors. My pace is about on par with that of your average garden slug. I've actually found myself clinging to scaffolding for support, which marks the second handy use I've found for the stuff -- the first being shelter from the rain. People are staring at me like I've just wandered out from the local leper colony. So I'm limping, is that such a crime? And yeah, I'm wearing flip-flops. I can't get a goddamn shoe on my foot. Whatta ya want from me? It's like there's a photographer from Vice Magazine lurking around every corner, waiting to pounce and turn me into a Don't (sorry for the 6 year old reference. do people still read Vice? does it still exist?). I am the walking, poorly dressed wounded.
An interest aside: so, my feet are abnormally white, right? Actually, my entire body is a bit on the, shall we say, non-tan side. But my feet haven't seen the sun in years. They're sort of cadaver-esque, I suppose. ANYWAY, every coworker I've encountered (which isn't many, actually, since I take great pains to avoid them) has delighted in ridiculing the pigment of my poor innocent footsies. Except, and get this (!): for the Indian girl with whom I share an office, who's done everything short of swooning at the sight of my milky white appendages. Seriously, she LOVES them. She has complimented me (repeatedly) on how white they are!!! To say nothing of the wonderful state of my toenails and tasteful, not-too-hairy tufts upon my toes. But it's the whiteness she's really taken with! Now, as someone as pale as I, this is quite a revelation. It's like discovering that a culture exists where the women pine for guys who are 5'9", have terrible hair, and sport rather large schnozzes. So, I press for details and it turns out that in India, the whiter the feet, the more attractive a person is considered to be. In fact, people BLEACH THEIR FEET to make them more white! What??? Jesus Christ, where has this information been my whole life? You mean to tell me I've spent 30 years cultivating a sense of humor, when I could have just bought a plane ticket and picked up women with my white feet? Good God!
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