Overheard this afternoon on the 14th Street Bus:
"I think from now on, before I have a child with a guy, I'm gonna find out a little bit about his background."
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Monday, November 19, 2007
I Am An Old Man
Once upon a time, I really enjoyed the game of tennis. Right around 7th Grade, it became kind of cool to spend summer evenings playing under the lights at the local municipal courts. Cool kids got there via moped. I rode my bike. I read Tennis magazine and attended the US Open every September, but mostly I just liked hitting the ball around. There was something strangely satisfying about hitting a perfect shot, or chasing down a lob, or tending the net. And I always felt kind of cool being the only kid to play left-handed, as if this slight (and probably mostly psychological) advantage made up for what was, at the end of the day, a totally average set of skills. Also, since most lefties seem to be at least a little ambidextrous, I felt extra cool running down particularly tough shots to my right side, switching hands, and returning them right-handed. I doubt anyone even noticed, but to me this was the absolute height of 7th Grade
Tennis Cool.
At some point during high school, I realized that my playground game wasn't going to cut it if I actually wanted to play in any official capacity. So I started taking lessons once a week, and progressed to the point where I was able to break into the Varsity squad my senior year. Our school had a good team by south Jersey standards (meaning we won our division, but got slaughtered at county or state tournaments or any occasion which pitted us against opponents from the more populous northern portions of the state), and while the rest of the team was pretty polished (though still quirky), my doubles partner Jon and I probably clashed a bit with the others, at least in terms of playing ability. We were Second Doubles, the lowest members of the Varsity team, and were periodically challenged by JV players, who could have taken our spots by beating us at practice (they didn't). Point being: the rest of the team didn't have to deal with this crap, since they were actually good at tennis. We were only marginally good. But that's what was fun about it. While Brian, at First Singles (the best player), had to pretty much play like a machine to compete against each school's best player (even schools w/ incredibly shitty teams had one good guy Brian had to face), Jon and I were free to be our scrappy, marginally good selves. I could hit forehands from both sides, throw my racket after bad shots, and dive around the court like an idiot. Jon, even worse, would smoke in between games, eat McDonalds cheeseburgers during court changes, and once climbed up the high chain link fence surrounding the court and started screaming for someone to let him out of his cage. I think we were losing at the time. On more than one occasion, we were reprimanded by the other team's coach, which really takes some doing. But man, this was fun!
[Jon later got arrested for grand larceny and extradited to West Virginia. True story.]
[Totally Skippable Tennis Note, for anyone interested: the way a team tennis match works is this: there are 7 Varsity Players. The top 3 play singles, the next 4 doubles. So, each match is actually comprised of 5 matches (3 singles, 2 doubles). Whichever team wins the best of 5, wins the match. So screwups like me and Jon actually figure in evenly with the real players.)
ANYWAY, then I got to college and sports weren't cool anymore. What was cool? Let's see: hair dye, nose rings, apathy, flannel, thrift shops, Seattle, coffee, and etc. I put down my racket and didn't play tennis again for another 16 years. Which brings us to this past Monday.
Holy unbelievable crap, I am an old, slow, and easily-winded semblance of my former self. I am an embarresment to terrestrial creatures of all shapes and sizes. I am a lumbering oaf with the soft touch of a rhino. I am a sack of bones and soft shapes where once were muscles. I am very, very bad at tennis. When I say I was sore after playing a single set, what I mean is that two days later I was begging my girlfriend to please rub my right buttock, which throbbed with an intensity of pain normally associated with makeshift Civil War field hospitals (like any right-minded person, by the way, she demurred). Four days of absolute misery. Here's what I couldn't do without yelping in pain after playing one set of tennis: put my pants on, brush my teeth, walk down a flight of stairs, drive, tie my shoes. I mean, this was a serious wakeup call. I am no longer young.
But damn, I don't wanna go out like this. I played again on Friday, and this time was able to last a set and a half. I was sore all weekend, but nothing like the first time (now my soreness was of a more reasonable variety: feet, ankles, that sort of thing). Thing is, while plodding around the court the second time, I was struck over the head by the knowledge of what getting old, and I mean really old, will feel like. As I shuffled about, hitting balls into the net, way past the baseline, or not at all, I experienced a dramatic disconnect between brain and body. In my head, I was still the same me as ever. My "I" — whatever it is that makes me feel like me — hadn't changed at all. The brain was still in perfect shape. I knew exactly what shots I wanted to hit, where I wanted to place them, what spin I wanted to put on them. The whole game came flooding back to me almost immediately, as if my last match were 16 hours ago, not 16 years. But actually doing it? Totally different story. I just can't. It just doesn't happen. My body knows the truth, whether or not my brain can relate. I think this is what getting old must feel like, a series of surprises, the gradual incremental knowledge that, in fact, you aren't really you anymore, regardless of what you think.
Tennis Cool.
At some point during high school, I realized that my playground game wasn't going to cut it if I actually wanted to play in any official capacity. So I started taking lessons once a week, and progressed to the point where I was able to break into the Varsity squad my senior year. Our school had a good team by south Jersey standards (meaning we won our division, but got slaughtered at county or state tournaments or any occasion which pitted us against opponents from the more populous northern portions of the state), and while the rest of the team was pretty polished (though still quirky), my doubles partner Jon and I probably clashed a bit with the others, at least in terms of playing ability. We were Second Doubles, the lowest members of the Varsity team, and were periodically challenged by JV players, who could have taken our spots by beating us at practice (they didn't). Point being: the rest of the team didn't have to deal with this crap, since they were actually good at tennis. We were only marginally good. But that's what was fun about it. While Brian, at First Singles (the best player), had to pretty much play like a machine to compete against each school's best player (even schools w/ incredibly shitty teams had one good guy Brian had to face), Jon and I were free to be our scrappy, marginally good selves. I could hit forehands from both sides, throw my racket after bad shots, and dive around the court like an idiot. Jon, even worse, would smoke in between games, eat McDonalds cheeseburgers during court changes, and once climbed up the high chain link fence surrounding the court and started screaming for someone to let him out of his cage. I think we were losing at the time. On more than one occasion, we were reprimanded by the other team's coach, which really takes some doing. But man, this was fun!
[Jon later got arrested for grand larceny and extradited to West Virginia. True story.]
[Totally Skippable Tennis Note, for anyone interested: the way a team tennis match works is this: there are 7 Varsity Players. The top 3 play singles, the next 4 doubles. So, each match is actually comprised of 5 matches (3 singles, 2 doubles). Whichever team wins the best of 5, wins the match. So screwups like me and Jon actually figure in evenly with the real players.)
ANYWAY, then I got to college and sports weren't cool anymore. What was cool? Let's see: hair dye, nose rings, apathy, flannel, thrift shops, Seattle, coffee, and etc. I put down my racket and didn't play tennis again for another 16 years. Which brings us to this past Monday.
Holy unbelievable crap, I am an old, slow, and easily-winded semblance of my former self. I am an embarresment to terrestrial creatures of all shapes and sizes. I am a lumbering oaf with the soft touch of a rhino. I am a sack of bones and soft shapes where once were muscles. I am very, very bad at tennis. When I say I was sore after playing a single set, what I mean is that two days later I was begging my girlfriend to please rub my right buttock, which throbbed with an intensity of pain normally associated with makeshift Civil War field hospitals (like any right-minded person, by the way, she demurred). Four days of absolute misery. Here's what I couldn't do without yelping in pain after playing one set of tennis: put my pants on, brush my teeth, walk down a flight of stairs, drive, tie my shoes. I mean, this was a serious wakeup call. I am no longer young.
But damn, I don't wanna go out like this. I played again on Friday, and this time was able to last a set and a half. I was sore all weekend, but nothing like the first time (now my soreness was of a more reasonable variety: feet, ankles, that sort of thing). Thing is, while plodding around the court the second time, I was struck over the head by the knowledge of what getting old, and I mean really old, will feel like. As I shuffled about, hitting balls into the net, way past the baseline, or not at all, I experienced a dramatic disconnect between brain and body. In my head, I was still the same me as ever. My "I" — whatever it is that makes me feel like me — hadn't changed at all. The brain was still in perfect shape. I knew exactly what shots I wanted to hit, where I wanted to place them, what spin I wanted to put on them. The whole game came flooding back to me almost immediately, as if my last match were 16 hours ago, not 16 years. But actually doing it? Totally different story. I just can't. It just doesn't happen. My body knows the truth, whether or not my brain can relate. I think this is what getting old must feel like, a series of surprises, the gradual incremental knowledge that, in fact, you aren't really you anymore, regardless of what you think.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
I Have A Fever
I'm in bed and I'm freezing, then I'm sweating, then I'm freezing again. It's not fun. Not fun at all.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
DC en Fuego
Two nights ago, I happened to fall asleep at a decent hour only to be quickly jolted out of bed by what sounded like a car accident. I stumbled about trying to find my glasses, then managed to open the shades after only the briefest of struggles. Now, I'm always convinced I hear something, like an intruder, a ghost, a knife fight in the street (hey, this is DC, after all). And it's always nothing, just the wind or the chronic ringing in my ears or (where have you gone?) my imagination. So imagine my surprise at the sight of a gigantic fireball 3 doors down, with a pickup truck in the middle. That's right: a truck blew up on my street. The truck was totally engulfed, like it was protesting the war in Vietnam. You could sort of make out the truck in there, but it was really just a giant ball of fire. Obviously, I felt pretty great that my own car was parked 4 spots behind the fireball.
Like the rest of my new neighbors, I stumbled out into the frigid night, wearing only my jammies and a look that suggested, "where the hell have I just moved to?" Amy stayed inside and watched from the windows, missing all the neighborly chitchat. Soon, we were herded aside by the incomparable DC police force (none of whom, unfortunately, brought their Segways), while the fire department got things under control in a matter of moments. The most excitement came when a stretcher was wheeled toward the truck, bringing gasps from all assembled. Was there actually somebody in there?
Fortunately, there was not. But maybe if there had been, I'd actually be able to dig up a shred of news concerning this event. A truck BLOWS UP on my street, two white males are observed fleeing the scene, and, well: NOTHING. You can't imagine how disconcerting this is. Where's the media? Where's like the police department Press Release, or something on the website, or, I don't know, a tiny item in the next morning's paper. Has DC slid so far down the drain that a vehicle being bombed doesn't warrant any follow-up? I mean, I can't even find anything about it on my neighborhood's crime blog...which, by the way, is even more disconcerting. My neighborhood has a crime blog. And the posts don't read like "Got a parking ticket on 15th Street". Oh no, these posts are more along the lines of "Girl raped in broad daylight outside convenience store" and "My boyfriend was jumped by 3 black guys in an alley off Mt. Pleasant." This is not good.
Neil Diamond's "I Am...I Said" just came on the shuffle: "LA's fine, but it ain't home. New York's home but it ain't mine no more."
I need a drink.
Like the rest of my new neighbors, I stumbled out into the frigid night, wearing only my jammies and a look that suggested, "where the hell have I just moved to?" Amy stayed inside and watched from the windows, missing all the neighborly chitchat. Soon, we were herded aside by the incomparable DC police force (none of whom, unfortunately, brought their Segways), while the fire department got things under control in a matter of moments. The most excitement came when a stretcher was wheeled toward the truck, bringing gasps from all assembled. Was there actually somebody in there?
Fortunately, there was not. But maybe if there had been, I'd actually be able to dig up a shred of news concerning this event. A truck BLOWS UP on my street, two white males are observed fleeing the scene, and, well: NOTHING. You can't imagine how disconcerting this is. Where's the media? Where's like the police department Press Release, or something on the website, or, I don't know, a tiny item in the next morning's paper. Has DC slid so far down the drain that a vehicle being bombed doesn't warrant any follow-up? I mean, I can't even find anything about it on my neighborhood's crime blog...which, by the way, is even more disconcerting. My neighborhood has a crime blog. And the posts don't read like "Got a parking ticket on 15th Street". Oh no, these posts are more along the lines of "Girl raped in broad daylight outside convenience store" and "My boyfriend was jumped by 3 black guys in an alley off Mt. Pleasant." This is not good.
Neil Diamond's "I Am...I Said" just came on the shuffle: "LA's fine, but it ain't home. New York's home but it ain't mine no more."
I need a drink.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Our Oven
This is what I've been dealing with pretty much full time for the past two weeks:
That is a detail from INSIDE our oven, depicting what remains when you let mice nest in your stove for two years. Apparently, the animals who occupied our house previously had no problem with this state of affairs, nor with the unimaginable odor which emanated forth from the stove as a result. What's worse, our slumlord sees no problem with this. To him, this constitutes a perfectly safe, sanitary, and acceptable living environment. Not only that, but he views me as the problem, a high-maintenance tenant who insists on making his life miserable.
But, aha: here's where attorneys and the DC housing inspector come in, to strike the fear of God and citations into slumlords everywhere. Like the cockroaches no doubt slumbering somewhere inside this oven, the slumlord scurries out into the light of day when said slumlord's ass is held in close proximity to the proverbial fire. And thus, tonight I purchase a new stove, and the slumlord pays.
Just a note for all my readers. Why have I not been writing any amusing entries of late? Because I've been far to busy dealing with this unbelievable bullshit.
That is a detail from INSIDE our oven, depicting what remains when you let mice nest in your stove for two years. Apparently, the animals who occupied our house previously had no problem with this state of affairs, nor with the unimaginable odor which emanated forth from the stove as a result. What's worse, our slumlord sees no problem with this. To him, this constitutes a perfectly safe, sanitary, and acceptable living environment. Not only that, but he views me as the problem, a high-maintenance tenant who insists on making his life miserable.
But, aha: here's where attorneys and the DC housing inspector come in, to strike the fear of God and citations into slumlords everywhere. Like the cockroaches no doubt slumbering somewhere inside this oven, the slumlord scurries out into the light of day when said slumlord's ass is held in close proximity to the proverbial fire. And thus, tonight I purchase a new stove, and the slumlord pays.
Just a note for all my readers. Why have I not been writing any amusing entries of late? Because I've been far to busy dealing with this unbelievable bullshit.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Working from Home
Just a little note to cheer the spirits of those of you working in cubicle-land: at 1pm today, an exterminator and I will explore the inner catacombs of my oven, in which appears to be residing a medium-sized community of disgusting rodents. Working from home: it's fantastic!
Monday, October 15, 2007
I Am Still Alive, But Barely
My God, moving blows. Seriously, it's the absolute worst. The last two weeks have been a series of ever-maddening moving related imbroglios. Everything has completely fallen by the wayside. I'm a shell of my former self. I'm essentially still living out of a bag. Everything is weird and upside down. Oh, and I'm in a new city where I don't know anyone or my way around. Uh, I think I'll deal with those facts later, possibly with the help of an accredited psychoanalyst.
Things have been such a blur that I believe only an observational list will do. And so I present, Observations on Moving from NYC to DC on a Whim:
1. An hour at the Chelsea U-Haul outpost will cure any of your I'm-Sad-To-Be-Leaving-NYC bittersweet nostalgia real, real quick. As will driving your U-Haul truck through the streets of Manhattan. Awful.
2. Dropping said truck off in the middle of one of DC's various ghettos will instantly make you pine for the Chelsea branch, and NYC in general.
3. Working from home = awesome. Working from home in bed = super awesome.
4. If you're planning a major lifestyle move, don't also plan to shoot a trailer for your documentary during the same week. Trust me on this.
5. I still haven't processed what went down with the Phillies yet. Attempting to comprehend the past 2 weeks in Phillies' history is about on par with pondering the near-infinite dimensions of physical space. Suffice to say, the Phils were just another layer of my preposterous last two weeks. Overwhelming isn't even the word.
6. That said, I'm not sure I've experienced greater pleasure than watching Mets fans openly weep during the final day of the regular baseball season. Now I know what it feels like to be alive.
7. My girlfriend and I moved into a house previously occupied by the only pair of disgustingly filthy gay men known in the Western hemisphere. These two managed to singlehandedly torpedo every gay stereotype I know of. I wish they'd spent less time maniacally tending to the garden and a little more time addressing the rodents in the stove. Oh, but at least the plants look nice. I was trying to think of a Queer Eye for the Slovenly Gay Guy joke here, but it made my head hurt.
8. I can actually see trees out the window. Lots of them. I forgot about those things.
9. Painting sucks.
10. If you ever wondered what would be the first thing about you life you'd stop doing if you ever got really, really busy, I've got your answer: blogging. You'd stop blogging.
Things have been such a blur that I believe only an observational list will do. And so I present, Observations on Moving from NYC to DC on a Whim:
1. An hour at the Chelsea U-Haul outpost will cure any of your I'm-Sad-To-Be-Leaving-NYC bittersweet nostalgia real, real quick. As will driving your U-Haul truck through the streets of Manhattan. Awful.
2. Dropping said truck off in the middle of one of DC's various ghettos will instantly make you pine for the Chelsea branch, and NYC in general.
3. Working from home = awesome. Working from home in bed = super awesome.
4. If you're planning a major lifestyle move, don't also plan to shoot a trailer for your documentary during the same week. Trust me on this.
5. I still haven't processed what went down with the Phillies yet. Attempting to comprehend the past 2 weeks in Phillies' history is about on par with pondering the near-infinite dimensions of physical space. Suffice to say, the Phils were just another layer of my preposterous last two weeks. Overwhelming isn't even the word.
6. That said, I'm not sure I've experienced greater pleasure than watching Mets fans openly weep during the final day of the regular baseball season. Now I know what it feels like to be alive.
7. My girlfriend and I moved into a house previously occupied by the only pair of disgustingly filthy gay men known in the Western hemisphere. These two managed to singlehandedly torpedo every gay stereotype I know of. I wish they'd spent less time maniacally tending to the garden and a little more time addressing the rodents in the stove. Oh, but at least the plants look nice. I was trying to think of a Queer Eye for the Slovenly Gay Guy joke here, but it made my head hurt.
8. I can actually see trees out the window. Lots of them. I forgot about those things.
9. Painting sucks.
10. If you ever wondered what would be the first thing about you life you'd stop doing if you ever got really, really busy, I've got your answer: blogging. You'd stop blogging.
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